


The Gathering Storm

by Morgenleoht



Series: The Prices We Pay [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abandonment, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Child Soldiers, Crimes & Criminals, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Multi, Origin Story, Religious Persecution, Suicidal Thoughts, Villain Protagonist, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-22 23:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12493292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgenleoht/pseuds/Morgenleoht
Summary: If you want something done, you have to do it yourself.Sigdrifa Stormsword knows herself to be the last hope of Skyrim. Only by emulating Talos can she achieve her goals. As anything was a weapon to His hand, so must anything - even those she cares for - be a weapon to her hand.The storm gathers and any who oppose her will be swept away.





	1. Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, religious persecution, war crimes, criminal acts, child abuse/neglect, child abandonment, and mentions of genocide, drug/alcohol abuse, torture and child soldiers. Post-Great War AU prequel to the main storyline. Now I'm done with uni for the year, I should be able to write some more. Playing around with the timing of the Markarth Incident for story purposes.

 

“Dammit, the Thalmor have found us!”

            Acilius Bolar unsheathed his katana and went to hold them off, but Sigdrifa caught his shoulder. Cloud Ruler Temple had fallen in a welter of blood and guts, leaving the group of five as the likely only survivors. “Let me throw a few Frost and Shock Runes in their path,” she advised. “If we can get ahead of them on the Serpent’s Trail-“

            “I have a better idea,” Esbern interrupted, looking down at the youngest member of their party. “Callaina, do you remember what I taught you about avalanches?”

            “’One stone can start an avalanche; one person can change the world’,” the big-eyed girl replied.

            “Precisely.” Esbern was remarkably calm as the sound of haughty Altmer accents reached their ears. “Pull on the big boulder over there, just like I’ve taught you.”

            Sigdrifa’s daughter clenched her fists, a turquoise glow surrounding them. A grating noise echoed throughout the valley, no doubt giving the Justicars an idea of their location. Then one boulder about the size of a horse was wrenched free of the mountainside, bringing down several thousand-weights of snow and stone that cascaded down the trail.

            “That will buy us enough time to reach the Serpent’s Trail,” the Loremaster informed Sigdrifa as Callaina wilted in exhaustion. “We better move it.”

            The fifth member of their party, a silent scar-faced Nord with a prisoner’s pallor, picked up the girl. Of them all, he had the most reason to fear and flee the goldskins.

           

            Acilius took point and Sigdrifa brought up the rear, casting a few Shock Runes on their backtrail to be certain. It was still an hour to the secret Akaviri trail that cut under the Jeralls between Cyrodiil and Skyrim. Callaina was now too tired to walk and Ulfric would be burdened with her on top of his healing injuries.

            It was snowing, Kynareth lending a hand to the escape of the last two Blades, a Shieldmaiden of Talos, the Tongue they’d rescued from Falinesti and the girl. Damn Arius for his pride and stupidity. Damn Rustem for his presence in Hammerfell and Irkand for his absence. The Blades should have scattered to the winds, not launched a rebellion just after the Battle of the Red Ring and the signing of the White-Gold Concordat. Now they were dead and purged.

            Esbern dropped past Ulfric to join her, his Flame Atronach ranging ahead of Acilius to melt the snow on their path. “Callaina’s a savant at Alteration magic,” he explained in a low voice. “It made sense for her to use Telekinesis to start the avalanche and for me and you to save our magicka for a fight.”

            Sigdrifa grunted sourly. The reasoning made sense. It grated that the Loremaster knew more about her child than she did. But until recently, the girl had been weak and prone to frequent minor illnesses. What was it the older women said? Don’t get attached to the sickly ones. She’d done so, however, and tried to toughen her up as a Shieldmaiden was. It hadn’t worked.

            Esbern’s mouth tightened. He was fond of Callaina in a grandfatherly way. “She’s using spells that it took me almost ten years to master, Sigdrifa. When it comes to Alteration magic, she’s… as skilled as you are at strategy. She’ll be casting Master-level spells by twelve, I’m certain of it.”

            “Now’s not the time,” Acilius said over his shoulder. “Though I’ll grant it was well done of her.”

            Sigdrifa’s mother was a Reacher Nord, from one of the southern clans that bordered Falkreath, and so the Shieldmaiden didn’t have the typical prejudice against magic. But she preferred the simple spells of Destruction and appreciated the use of Restoration. Esbern was a Conjurer, summoning Daedric creatures from Oblivion, and it seemed her daughter could alter reality as easily as Sigdrifa could read a battlefield. That was _not_ reassuring.

            They forged ahead through the snow until the blue light in Esbern’s hand, the only sign of his scrying spell, veered sharply to the right. “Here we go,” he announced. “We should emerge just above the snowline in the Jerall foothills.”

            Even Acilius’ sharp eyes almost missed the entrance to the Serpent’s Trail. It was a small alcove just off the game trail that ran almost parallel to the Pale Pass road. An old Akaviri scout’s path. Like the Blades of old, they would be saved.

            Arius’ ancestors were a good deal more useful than the Grand Master had been.

            A carefully cast Ice Spike brought another few tonnes of snow down, snow that Sigdrifa transformed into a wall of solid ice. In this weather, it would last several days, and possibly even conceal the Trail’s entrance.

            They still walked for an hour or so until Ulfric’s steps began to flag. Nothing worse than skeevers troubled them, the Akaviri ghosts banished during the Oblivion Crisis. Acilius led them unerringly to a small cavern in the trail, marked by fungi that glowed green-blue in Esbern’s ball of Magelight. “I don’t know if the cache’s still good but there should be something usable,” the Blades katana master informed them. “We should be able to rest for a few hours.”

            Ulfric gently laid the dozy Callaina down on a mossy stone; she promptly curled up and fell asleep. “Leave me behind,” he said simply. “The Thalmor want me above all else.”

            “They want all of us,” Esbern said grimly. “Me for what I know, you and Sigdrifa and Acilius for what we are, Callaina to hand over to Titus Mede as a sop.”

            The old man was correct. Sigdrifa sat down and unbuckled her greaves, boots and bracers for some momentary comfort. “Not an option,” she told the Tongue. “If one reason for rescuing you no longer applies, the other one certainly does.”

            “Because I am the son of the Jarl of Windhelm,” he said with a sigh, sitting down beside her. “The broken milk-drinking failed Greybeard. Yes, I’m _such_ a prize.”

            “That which is broken can be mended,” Sigdrifa observed with some asperity. “If Callaina turned out to be useful, I’m sure you can.”

            Esbern muttered something uncomplimentary and made a series of elaborate gestures. Purple-black light and humming filled the air, coalescing into a ghostly cookpot that hung over an ethereal flame. Sigdrifa shuddered at the Daedric energies but she was in no position to argue. It would keep them alive.

            Between them, they managed to create a thin gruel of blue mountain flowers and cracked wheat, thicker than a potion but far too watery for porridge. Sigdrifa woke Callaina to give her a cup of the stuff; her daughter obeyed with wary, watchful eyes. The heat and food, meagre as it was, sent them all into an uneasy slumber.

            One thing was certain: Talos, perhaps the very world, was in danger. The Blades had failed. The Empire had failed. So it fell to Sigdrifa to do something about it.

            She glanced at Ulfric. Whether he realised it or not, he would be the perfect weapon to save Skyrim.

…

Dengeir of Stuhn reluctantly received them, looking over his shoulder for Thalmor and Legionnaires hunting his only daughter. “You better get to Windhelm as soon as possible,” he warned Ulfric. “Your father’s health declined when he found out about your capture and if _he_ falls, Istlod will be helpless before the Thalmor.”

            Ulfric growled at Falkreath’s Jarl. “I know. That… Thalmor bitch… taunted me with it.”

            “What _we_ need to do is disappear,” Acilius announced calmly. “Ulfric and Sigdrifa have enough status that it would be politically awkward to vanish them, but Esbern and I…?”

            “You two know your business,” Sigdrifa agreed harshly. Ulfric knew that the clever mind between those glacial blue-green eyes was already planning counters to the Thalmor. He knew enough about the Shieldmaiden to hazard a guess as to his place in the scheme of things. What she mightn’t realise was that Ulfric had a few thoughts of his own in which she figured prominently.

            Callaina sat in the shadows by the firepit, her turquoise eyes wide. She’d spoken little during the long walk under the Jeralls, obeying her mother with the same watchful obedience that a whipped dog demonstrated. Ulfric knew Sigdrifa wasn’t a kind woman. The training of a Shieldmaiden and her subsequent marriage to an arrogant, feckless, whoring sack of shit like Rustem Aurelius didn’t lend her to mercy. Callaina being a slip of a child wouldn’t endear her to Sigdrifa.

            “Arius’ idiotic rebellion complicates matters even further,” Dengeir said sourly, drinking from a flagon of mead. “The Aurelii will be hunted across Tamriel by Titus Mede and the Thalmor.”

            “What are you saying?” Sigdrifa said slowly.

            “We need to pretend your marriage never happened,” the Jarl replied. “It won’t fool Titus Mede but it will distance _us_ away from the rebellion.”

            Ulfric winced as he read between the lines of that particular statement. “What about Callaina?” he asked, because someone had to.

            “The Shieldmaidens,” Sigdrifa said immediately as Esbern said, _“No.”_

            “No?” Dengeir asked, eyeing the Blades Loremaster.

            “She’s too good a mage. If an old man with a child wouldn’t be too visible, I’d keep her myself,” Esbern responded. “Can’t you claim she’s one of Balgeir’s bastards?”

            “No,” Dengeir said bluntly. “She looks too Aurelii.”

            “And she’s too physically weak to be a Shieldmaiden,” Acilius said grimly. “I’m Colovian from the Hammerfell border. She can pass for my daughter.”

            Sigdrifa rose to her feet and walked over to the cowering child. Ulfric flinched as he remembered cowering before a strikingly beautiful womer. “You need to forget you’re my daughter, forget you’re Aurelii, or you will get a lot of innocent people killed,” she said flintily. “Do you understand?”

            Callaina nodded so hastily that Ulfric had to wonder if she’d be glad to pretend she wasn’t Sigdrifa’s daughter.

            “Then it’s done. I’ll take care of the paperwork,” Dengeir announced. “Get going, you three. I can only hide my daughter and Ulfric for a few days.”

            Acilius reached out for Callaina’s hand and she took it, standing up. Her mouth was pursed and her eyes hard. The resemblance to her mother in that moment was uncanny. Ulfric glanced away, unable to bear that gaze.

            Sigdrifa and Dengeir didn’t say farewell to the Blades, but Ulfric bowed slightly to them. They would, Talos willing, draw the eyes of the Thalmor away from him and Sigdrifa.

            _Throwing a child under the cart to save yourself,_ his conscience observed in the voice of Master Arngeir. _Truly, you have been corrupted by the Blades…_

Ulfric ignored it. Skyrim didn’t need mountain-dwelling pacifists. She needed people willing to fight for her. Even if one was a broken milk-drinking failure like him.

…

Acilius died in Bloated Man Grotto at the foot of a Talos shrine. Callaina huddled behind a bush until the Thalmor had finished defiling his body and left, then a good deal longer until thirst drove her out into the open. She followed the trickle of water in the grotto, eating anything that looked edible and making herself sick a few times, until she stumbled upon the path that led outside. She followed _that_ to the boundless golden tundra of Whiterun and the cobblestone road that girdled it like a woman’s waist. Once night fell, she cautiously crept along the road, keeping an eye out for Thalmor or Legionnaires.

            She walked until her legs ached and her shoes split. Whiterun was bigger than Bruma, Esbern once said. She could be no one in Whiterun. Forget her mother, forget her family. Better for everyone.

            She fell asleep by the side of the road and woke up in a wagon.

            “Abandoned?” the driver, a weathered Nord with the burred accent of someone from Skyrim, asked gently.

            She nodded. Her only protector was dead and Esbern was a long way away by now.

            “I’m Rorik.” He gestured to the Breton sitting next to him on the broad driver’s seat. “This is my friend Jouane.”

            “Good morning, child.” Jouane rummaged in his rucksack and turned around, offering her a piece of flatbread. “Legion-style, I’m afraid. Neither of us can cook that well.”

            “Thank you.” Callaina nibbled on it. “I’m… Laina.”

            Uncle Irkand called her Lia – short for the first part of her name Aurelia – and Esbern used to call her Calli. But they were gone. No one called her Laina, so she could hide from the Thalmor and the Legion.

            “As you wish.” Jouane’s eyes were shrewd. “Do you have kin?”

            “No.” That was the truth. “Thalmor killed them.”

            Rorik glanced at his friend. “We can’t send her to Honorhall.”

            Jouane nodded. “Agreed. She has deep reserves of magicka.”

            “I can lift things,” Laina said proudly. And demonstrated with the sacks of grain in the wagon. Bretons were good at magic.

            Jouane’s eyes lit up. “Well, well. That’s a very hard spell to do, Laina.”

            She carefully set the sacks down like Esbern had taught her. “I can make things glow, breathe underwater and make my skin hard.”

            The Breton nodded as the wagon rolled along the road. “Who taught you that?”

            “He’s gone now,” she said warily. “Just like everyone else.”

            Jouane nodded once more. “Well, I know a few spells too.”

            He produced a chunk of iron ore, closed his fist around it with a greenish glow, and opened his fingers to reveal a chunk of golden ore. “Can you do that?”

            “Not yet.” Esbern and the other mages had done it, to make gold that the Blades could create septims from.

            Jouane smiled and handed her another chunk of iron ore. “It will become silver first, then gold. Close your eyes and _feel_ the ore with your essence…”

            By the time they trundled into the decrepit village with its barren fields and rundown inn, Laina could turn iron into silver and silver into gold. Jouane promptly declared her his new apprentice to Rorik’s fond amusement.

            By the end of the year, a haggard-looking Altmer with a Redguard boy in her arms joined them in the newly christened Rorikstead, formerly known as Rorik’s Steading. Even goldskins had farmers, judging by the way she took to tending the fields. Reldith’s presence let Rorik sit down more because of his bad back. With the presence of Ennis, Laina had someone she could spend time with, though they both had to work in the fields in addition to her learning magic from Jouane and him learning business from Rorik.

            By the end of the next year, the news of Ulfric Stormcloak, a hero of the Great War, marrying the Shieldmaiden Sigdrifa Stormsword reached the hamlet. Laina was too busy learning Aldmeri magics from Reldith, who was delighted to have an assistant, that enriched the soil to notice or care.

            The year after that, she was ten and Jouane started teaching her Restoration magic to supplement her talents in Alteration. Ennis was eight and already helping Rorik with the account books.

            By the time Mralki and his wife arrived to take over the inn, Laina barely thought of her life in Cyrodiil. The Thalmor stomped down on Talos worship with a black-and-gold boot, but the few Justicars passing through Rorikstead on the way to Solitude didn’t even stop at the Frostfruit Inn for a drink.

            When she was fifteen and beyond Jouane and Reldith’s teachings, she didn’t think of it at all, and even less so of the woman who bore her. The fact that Ulfric and Sigdrifa had two hearty sons was irrelevant to a girl who could turn lifeless brown dust and cow shit into the richest soil in Whiterun Hold. Lemkil and his wife arrived to work the other farm Rorik established. Mralki’s son Erik was just old enough to start picking bugs from Reldith’s cabbages.

            But outside Rorikstead, stormclouds were gathering, long plans set into motion.


	2. Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, religious persecution, war crimes, and mentions of genocide, child soldiers and child abuse/neglect. Yes, Sigdrifa is a villain in the classical sense, but I’m trying to humanise her. Combat training started young during pre-modern times, especially among the warrior and noble classes, but I’ve included a child soldiers tag just in case.

 

Six years of marriage, the heir born a year after and the spare a year and three months later. Bjarni and Egil were five and four respectively, hale and hearty boys who’d passed the dangerous years with nary a sniffle, let alone anything worse. Sigdrifa inhaled deeply and exhaled in relief as she watched Galmar Stone-Fist, Ulfric’s closest friend (and maybe lover, according to certain rumours), run the children through the Nine Blows and Blocks of Ysgramor, the heart of Nordic combat style. His niece Njada was with them, a year into her training at the age of six and already performing basic sequences of attack and defence. Perhaps if she’d taken the time with Callaina instead of trying to teach Arius how to run a war in the early years, the girl would have been strong enough to keep alive. There were regrets, Sigdrifa had to admit. But she didn’t dare show them.

            The children born before the Great War were now of age – or near enough that they could start contemplating ice wraith hunts. It was this generation that would be critical in her plans because they’d be old enough to remember the days when Talos could be worshipped openly but young enough to be moulded into the warriors and commanders of tomorrow. Sigdrifa and Ulfric would need a dedicated corps of soldiers in the future.

            It was strange that the marriage she’d entered based on cold calculation instead of blind faith was the one that worked out. Sigdrifa was honest enough to admit that Ulfric sharing her race and religion helped. Rustem worshipped Talos absently, more interested in fighting and fucking than faith, while Ulfric was as fervent in his worship of the Hero-God as she was. They had slightly different interpretations of the Stormcrown – Ulfric, shaped by his years as a Tongue, focused on the Dragonborn aspects while she was drawn to the warlord-politician that built an Empire. But they complemented each other and she found herself content with that.

            Galmar ran the children through the Nine Blows and Blocks three times at quarter-speed – once with a sword-stick in hand, once with sword-stick and hide buckler and once with a two-handed weapon. Njada was already a promising shield-fighter while Egil used his stick more like a bludgeon and Bjarni wielded his in both hands. Within a year or so, when the basic patterns were drummed into their bones until it was more than instinct, they’d move on to pot-metal. By the age of nine or ten, they’d be working with edged iron. That was how the Shieldmaidens did it and Galmar had eagerly agreed with her suggestion they incorporate some of the techniques. Ulfric was unhappy about it but accepted the necessity.

            “Sigdrifa.” Ulfric’s booming baritone, smoothed out by age and healing from the cracked parody she recalled in the Great War, interrupted her reverie. “Are you busy?”

            “Just watching Galmar drill the children,” she replied, turning around. Ulfric was accompanied by a Reacher Nord with a flushed complexion, ash-blond hair and beard cropped close to the skin, and his younger scrawnier simulacrum. Both wore once-fine garments stained with blood and hard travel. “What is it?”

            Her husband nodded in the direction of the war room. “We need to talk in private.”

            On the way, she snapped orders to the Steward for meat, mead, bread and salt. These were Nords of high estate, ones who could be useful in their future plans. Bitterness marked their gazes and thwarted ambitions lined their faces.

            In the war room, located just off the Great Hall, Jarl Hoag was already there. He was trembling and blue-lipped, a shadow of his former bulky self, but he was there. “Sigdrifa,” he said with curt politeness. They didn’t like each other but Hoag recognised the necessity of her presence in Windhelm.

            “Hoag,” she replied. “So, Ulfric, who are our guests?”

             “I am Jarl Hrolfdir son of Hrolfgeir of the Reach,” the older man stated starkly. “And this is my son Igmund.”

            Sigdrifa flushed and bowed her head. “Apologies, kinsmen. I didn’t recognise you.”

            “Seeing as we haven’t seen each other since you were about six, that’s to be expected,” Hrolfdir said with a flash of wry humour. “You’ve grown into a fine woman and those boys of yours look strong.”

            “Ulfric’s blood,” she responded with a self-deprecating smile. “Seeing as us Westerners are all runts compared to the Old Holders.”

            “It’s not the size of the sword that matters, it’s how you wield it,” Ulfric said modestly.

            They took seats and waited for the food and drink to be brought, the Steward closing the door behind him. When it was shut, all traces of humour vanished from Hrolfdir’s face. “I’ll cut to the chase,” the Jarl said bluntly. “Two weeks ago, the Reachmen overwhelmed our depleted Hold Guard and took Markarth. Igmund and I barely escaped with our lives and left our huscarls bleeding out in the dirt because they died to save us.”

            “Fuck.” That was Ulfric. “Where’d they get that kind of cohesion? I thought the clans fought among themselves.”

            “They did until a new warlord rose in the northeast,” Igmund replied. “Madanach of Druadach Redoubt. He’s smart, clever and charismatic.”

            Sigdrifa closed her eyes. Of course it was the Reachmen. Hadn’t Talos’ rise to power started with those barbarians?

            “Popular too, even with some of the churls,” Hrolfdir admitted sourly. “The Imperial demand for silver has us working the churls to the bone and they’re blaming _us_ for it. He’s even won over some of the disaffected Orcs from Dushnik Yal and Mor Khazgur.”

            “So where’s the Legion?” Hoag asked.

            “Aiding the Thalmor in ripping innocent Nords from their homes for the ‘crime’ of worshipping Talos,” Hrolfdir said flatly. “Or propping up Istlod’s rule.”

            Ulfric growled, the sound making the walls tremble subtly. The Thalmor were the berserker button for him. “Could the goldskins be behind it?”

            “Anything’s possible,” Igmund said. “We’ve come to you and Sigdrifa for help. You are the only pair with the resources and the experience to fight the Daedra-loving bastards.”

            “The Legion will sit back for now,” Sigdrifa said, opening her eyes. “The Empire doesn’t care who delivers their silver, so long as it’s delivered. If Madanach’s half as shrewd as you say, he’ll have sent envoys to the Elder Council.”

            “We’ve been loyal since the time of Talos and they’d just let the Reachmen take over?” Igmund’s voice was disbelieving.

            “Cyrod honour, if such a word can be applied to their behaviour, revolves around the good of the Empire,” Sigdrifa responded harshly. “Of course, the good of the Empire is their own self-preservation. They betrayed a god to save their skins. What is one Hold in comparison to that?”

            The Reach was rocky and rich in three things: juniper berries, goats… and silver. That silver could fund an army. Sigdrifa exchanged a glance with Ulfric. They were on the same page.

            “Our help won’t come cheaply,” Ulfric said simply. “Five thousand-weight in silver. And the free worship of Talos in your Hold.”

            “Done and done,” Hrolfdir said, offering his hand.

            They shook on it.

…

The agreement might have been reached quickly but it still took a year to implement the counterattack and most of another year to quell the Forsworn enough to reach Markarth. It was now that Ulfric discovered the true worth of Sigdrifa. Her methodical planning, ability to see the flaws in plans, and the capacity to adapt to setbacks were as valuable as her raw skill in combat. His wedding gift to her, a shock-enchanted greatsword of the finest quicksilver, ebony and steel alloy, had proven its worth in battles against Hagraven and Briarheart. The men already called her Stormsword for it.

            Madanach was her match. Just after they left Whiterun Hold, reluctantly permitted passage by the young and uncertain Balgruuf the Greater, they were ambushed by an alliance of Forsworn from Serpent’s Bluff Redoubt and a local clan of vampires. Fifty men died that night while the Whiterun guards in Rorikstead twiddled their thumbs. Ulfric would remember that for the future.

            Sigdrifa’s retaliation was brutal. She led a squad of forty crack Legion veterans to Serpent’s Bluff and massacred every Reachman there. They’d already evacuated the children. Then she desecrated the corpses with goat shit and hung them from the cliffs. Then she tracked down the vampires and impaled them on stakes to await the sun.

            It took almost a year to cross the Reach. The Forsworn ambushed them at every turn and Sigdrifa slaughtered their civilians. And any Nord who assisted them. It worked for Talos, she said, so why not make it work for them?

            His wife scared Ulfric sometimes.

            But finally, they stood before Markarth. In the two years since Hrolfdir and Igmund were evicted, Madanach had reinforced crumbling stonework and placed wards upon it. The copper gates were now bound with iron and corundum. Forsworn armed with bows and magic lined the walls.

            Sigdrifa set up the soldiers just outside of the range of spells and arrows and blocked all paths to Markarth. She then waited to starve them into submission.

            A four-month siege in the end. When one of Madanach’s war-chiefs fell off the battlements from hunger, they knew it was time to attack.

            Copper gates were nothing in comparison to the Thu’um. Taken aback by the use of the Voice, the Forsworn couldn’t rally in time to counter Ulfric’s troops as they poured through the gate.

            It was still a bitter battle, the waterfalls of Markarth running red with blood. By the end of the second day, Understone Keep had fallen and Ulfric sighed in relief.

            It was done. The first step in reclaiming Skyrim achieved.

…

A sadly depleted force trudged through Rorikstead led by Sigdrifa. They were met just past the village by a hundred Whiterun guards led by an ageless Dunmer womer whose eyes and hair blazed scarlet in the setting sun.

            “We will escort you to the Eastmarch border,” the womer announced, hand resting on the hilt of a strange spike-and-crystal dagger. “Jarl Balgruuf doesn’t want… incidents… in his territory.”

            “Balgruuf should have supported us,” Sigdrifa said harshly. “The Reachmen betrayed Hrolfdir!”

            “And Hrolfdir betrayed you in the end,” the womer said pitilessly. “The Thalmor threatened Igmund and he caved.”

            Sigdrifa’s lips peeled back into a snarl and Galmar grabbed her shoulder. “We can’t pick a fight with Balgruuf,” the huscarl said in a low urgent growl. “While we’ve been dealing with the Forsworn threat on his border, he’s been building up wealth and power.”

            The Stormsword might have pursued the matter but she became consciously aware of the Rorikstead farmers watching them. In the years since the Great War’s end, Rorik and his Breton husband had transformed an abandoned village into the richest farmland of Skyrim’s breadbasket. It explained the presence of this Dunmer and the guards. Balgruuf valued his gold. Be it the gold of coin or the gold of grain. Idgrod Ravencrone was his sister-in-law. Her father Dengeir owed him for grain sent last spring after a plague ran through the Hold, killing off her mother. High King Istlod valued the advice of the up-and-coming Jarl of Whiterun.

            In short, Balgruuf was untouchable for the nonce.

            Sigdrifa nodded sharply. “We can trade for grain. Some Forsworn magical trinkets.”

            “Which are likely cursed,” the womer replied. “We can give you grain at Whiterun.”

            “We’ll pass,” she said flatly. “I have no desire to owe Balgruuf.”

            “Suit yourself.”

            It was a long hungry march to Valtheim Towers. Sigdrifa stripped the border garrison of supplies to feed her fifty remaining men. Kottir Red-Shoal took twenty men and ranged ahead to clear dangers in their path – and acquire more food for the Markarth veterans.

            Sigdrifa looked back over her shoulder. Hoag wasn’t going to take Ulfric’s imprisonment well and the ransom that Hrolfdir was demanding even poorer. It might just even kill the old man.

            Good. She was going to have to build Eastmarch’s guard from the ground up and the Jarl would just get in the way. Ulfric needed to be ransomed. That meant she’d need to pare Eastmarch to the bone.

            One day, she vowed, the Jarls of the Reach and Whiterun would pay for their lack of honour.


	3. Adults

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for death, violence, fantastic racism, religious persecution, child soldiers and mentions of imprisonment, war crimes, torture, debt bondage and child abuse/neglect. This story will be ten chapters or less as it’s a prequel to the main storyline.

 

When a Nord reached an age between fourteen and sixteen, it was customary for them to go into the snowfields and find an ice wraith to dispatch. The blue-silver scars and crystal-blue fang amulet proved them ready for the rights and responsibilities of adulthood. In other Holds, the occasion was arranged by family or friends or the local Thane. In Whiterun Hold however, Jarl Balgruuf the Greater was much more efficient. He sent his brother Hrongar around with a couple guards, rounded up the Nord youngsters who reached fifteen that year and marched them up to the foothills of Bleak Falls Barrow to kill their ice wraiths. In the year 182 of the Fourth Era, it was a varied group: Idolaf Battle-Born, Avulstein Grey-Mane, a pair of youths from Riverwood named Hadvar and Ralof, and Laina, the adopted daughter of Rorik of Rorikstead.

            “She has to go, Jouane,” Rorik told his husband as the Breton wrung his hands. “It’s a Nord thing and Laina _is_ a Nord.”

            So she found herself kitted out in Jouane’s old leather armour, which was just about the right size if a bit tight in the chest and hips, and armed with Rorik’s old gladius. The ritual required the use of weapons, not magic, because you needed scars (or a witness, which was Hrongar’s purpose) to prove you’d killed an ice wraith.

            If Jouane taught her magic, Rorik taught her the basics of swordcraft. Laina was no Companion nor had wish to be but she’d held her own in the raids that troubled Rorikstead every spring and autumn. Mostly Forsworn with a few odd bandits, they rounded up a few goats, stole a few bags of grain and melted back into the hills. Rorik left sacrificial caches for the raiders to take and Jouane made sure they stuck to them by using the odd Fireball to drive the greedier scavengers away.

            Hrongar marched them along the same road she’d taken so long ago when fleeing Bloated Man Grotto. They would camp on the tundra tonight, reach Riverwood tomorrow to pick up Hadvar and Ralof, and go into the snowfields to kill ice wraiths in the afternoon. Then they’d return to Whiterun for a meal in the Jarl’s own hall, be enrolled as tax-paying citizens of the Hold, and be permitted to return home the day after. Balgruuf was almost as efficient as the Legion.

            Idolaf and Avulstein were old friends, just like Hadvar and Ralof were reputed to be, and rattled on about politics with their cousin Hrongar. They were the sons of prominent Thanes in the Hold, the Battle-Borns the richest farmers in Whiterun and the Grey-Manes rich in honour as they had both a Companion and the blacksmith who worked the Skyforge in their ranks. Hrongar, of course, was the Jarl’s brother and chief of the household guards, though the huscarl Irileth was responsible for the Hold’s security as a whole. Hadvar was apparently the son of the Helgen Legion Tribune and Ralof’s mother was hetwoman of Riverwood, with her daughter Gerdur bound to follow in her footsteps.

            “I know Ulfric’s your cousin but the man was an idiot,” Idolaf told Avulstein bluntly. “Believing that he’d be permitted free Talos worship? That was daft. He should have held out for the silver and kept the worship to himself.”

            “The Thalmor are breaking into people’s homes now to search for proof of Talos worship,” Avulstein said gravely. “That’s what happened to Hakon at Helgen. He was Balgruuf’s third cousin!”

            “Da says you don’t need amulets or shrines to worship a god,” Idolaf said sententiously. “The White-Gold Concordat is shit, but better that than being crucified by elves. I hear they did that to the Blades in Bruma.”

            “No, that was because of rebellion,” Hrongar corrected over his shoulder. “The Aurelii, descendants of the Hero of Kvatch, incited them to rebel. The Emperor was forced to let the Thalmor have free reign over them.”

            “You mean Titus Mede let the goldskins do his dirty work,” Avulstein growled.

            “Well, yeah.” Hrongar shrugged. “Brutal but effective. Titus Mede can say he had nothing to do with it.”

            Laina looked fixedly ahead. Cloud Ruler was something she tried hard to forget. Most days, she even succeeded.

            They reached the Western Watchtower by sunset and ate a meal of gruel, dried meat and small ale from the guards’ rations. Laina rubbed elves’ ear salve into her aching legs and looked forward to her return to Rorikstead. Dirt and cow shit didn’t care about politics or identity.

            Despite the prosperity of his land, Rorik was a franklin, a land-holder ranked just above a carl, the landless freemen that made up the bulk of Skyrim’s guards and unskilled workers. There were relatively few churls in Whiterun Hold, Jarl Balgruuf disliking the system of semi-indentured labour that other Jarls relied on, and those few were working off private debts. Where Eastmarch waged war, the Reach picked up the pieces of the Forsworn Uprising and Haafingar tried to pretend the Great War hadn’t happened, Whiterun was building its wealth. Balgruuf controlled the trade of Skyrim and kept the peace.

            “You’re quiet,” Avulstein noted.

            “Crops don’t care about Jarls,” Laina pointed out. “Or gods.”

            “She’s got a point,” Idolaf observed. “Alfhild’s much the same way.”

            “You’ll care if the Legion or the Stormcloaks burn your crops,” Hrongar said grimly. “Rorik needs to pay more attention to politics.”

            “Stormcloaks?” Laina asked reluctantly.

            “Ulfric’s militia. Or better to say the Stormsword’s since he’s rotting in Understone Keep.” Hrongar grunted sourly. “I hear Sigdrifa’s extorting everything she can from the Dunmer and Argonians to pay Ulfric’s ransom. That will bite her in the arse.”

            “The Old Holds aren’t exactly a bastion of tolerance,” Idolaf said dryly. “I’m surprised non-Nords live there.”

            “Riften’s not so bad if you don’t mind the political corruption,” Hrongar said. “Turn in. I want an early start tomorrow.”

            They were awakened in the thin grey light of predawn. Laina stretched out her muscles just like Rorik had taught her, smirking at the boys’ complaints of stiffness and cold. She remembered the first years of Rorikstead, when she slept on a thin fur pallet in the inn basement with everyone else.

            Breakfast was flatbread on the march. Lunch was skipped because they reached Riverwood, where a heavy-shouldered, plain-faced boy in well-worn Legion armour and a golden-blond one in hide armour with an iron warhammer waited at the bridge. “Ready, sir,” said the wannabe Legionnaire in a soft tenor.

            “Good,” Hrongar said approvingly. “Ready for the Legion, Hadvar?”

            “Not until sixteen, but Da says it’s best to get used to the armour,” was Hadvar’s reply.

            “I’m for the Companions, I hope,” Ralof announced proudly.

            Avulstein snorted. “You better work on that overhead swing then, Ralof. Vilkas said it was shittier than a pile of mammoth dung.”

            “Still better than yours,” the blond retorted with a grin. “That’s why you’re gonna be a smith, not a Companion.”

            “That’s why you should be nice to me,” Avulstein countered. “I’ll be forging _your_ weapons.”

            “Enough,” Hrongar said. “Let’s go.”

            They marched over the bridge and the hill to the snowfield on the far side of Bleak Falls Barrow. Hrongar made each of them cut themselves to spill blood on the snow to attract ice wraiths.

            The translucent serpentine creatures were worse than Rorik described. Hadvar dispatched his with Legion efficiency while Idolaf and Avulstein took a little longer. The ice wraith danced rings around Ralof, nipping at him until he managed to break its back with his clunky warhammer. Laina was last, mostly because the ice wraiths were occupied with the greater threat posed by the males, and she brought it down after it bit her. The bite _hurt_ and she immediately Healed it.

            “Well done,” Hrongar said. “All of you are now adults in the eyes of the law and the gods. Time to return to-“

            “What is the meaning of this?” demanded a haughty Altmer voice.

            “A Nord ritual,” Hrongar replied, turning around to face the Justicar and his armoured goon. “We kill ice wraiths to become adults.”

            “I demand to question these brats,” the Justicar announced.

            “I am Hrongar, brother to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun,” Hrongar said flatly. “Show your warrant or leave, Thalmor.”

            What happened next defined the lives of all concerned. Ralof, warhammer still in hand, surged forth and buried its iron head into the skull of the Thalmor Justicar with a wet crunch. “Glory or Sovngarde!” he yelled.

            Hrongar swore viciously and threw his war-axe at the armoured soldier before the mer could react. Idolaf and Laina just stared in shock but Avulstein had already lifted his battleaxe and charged into the fray. The Thalmor, staggering from the axe to the chest, was bisected neatly.

            “You stupid fucking git!” Hrongar roared after retrieving his weapon, turning on Ralof. “Now we have to cover up the death of a Thalmor Justicar!”

            “We should kill them all!” Ralof yelled back. “But your brother’s too busy kissing their arses!”  
            “My brother is keeping idiots like you alive!” Hrongar retorted. “Take your wraith-fang, go back to Riverwood and get your things. You have a day to leave Whiterun or you’ll be handed over to the Legion for murder.”

            “Where will I go?” Ralof asked, eyes suddenly huge and scared.

            “Go to Windhelm. There’s plenty more idiots like you there.” Hrongar deliberately turned to the others. “Help me get rid of these bodies. If you speak of this – any of you…”

            Laina was already nodding in acquiescence. One more secret to keep. But she owed Ralof one. He might have saved her life.


	4. Recruitment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, torture, fantastic racism, passive suicidal ideation, and mentions of genocide and war crimes.

 

Ulfric was deposited at Valtheim Towers and the blindfold removed. His captors left before the paralysis poison wore off but he knew who they’d been. Elenwen’s perfume was… distinct.

            He’d thought himself free of them. Markarth proved how very wrong he was.

            The Jarl of Windhelm (voted so in his absence) struggled to his feet and then pitched forward once again. His face hit the dirty cobblestones and a tooth cracked. He decided to lay there and let the predators eat him. Sigdrifa was strong enough to keep their children alive.

            “By the Nine!” blurted a younger version of Balgruuf’s baritone, hoarse with what sounded like crying. “Are you alright?”

            Ulfric found himself helped to his feet by a rangy, sun-blond youth in bloodied hide armour. There was strength in those lanky arms, strength enough to steady him. “Easy,” the boy said. No, not a boy. Despite the patchy fluff on those cheeks, he had fresh ice wraith scars and a fang hanging around his neck. A new-made man with a striking resemblance to the Jarl of Whiterun. A _Talos-worshipping_ kinsman of Balgruuf’s.

            “I’m Ralof of Riverwood,” he continued. “Who are you?”

            “Ulfric,” he admitted. “Ulfric… Stormcloak.”

            “They let you out?” Ralof blurted.

            “Yes.”

            “Without an escort?”

            “I think someone hopes I die.” Probably more than one someone.

            Ralof’s sky-blue eyes hardened. “I’ll help you get home. I’m exiled anyway.”

            They walked past the abandoned garrison (why was it stripped? Was Sigdrifa unable to hold the borders?) and along the bridge that cut across the White River. By the time they reached Mixwater Mill, Ulfric could move under his own power and did so, stretching out stiff muscles.

            Ralof stopped at the mill and asked the owner for work in return for a night’s shelter for himself and his kinsman. The Imperial agreed, and the youth spent most of the afternoon cutting firewood with the ease of an experienced lumberjack while Ulfric sat on a bench feeling useless. His clothing was little more than rags and the scars of his torture were apparent.

            “What happened?” the Imperial asked as Ralof cut firewood.

            “Thalmor,” the blond responded tersely. “I killed the Justicar and his friend.”

            The mill owner asked no more questions but instead went into his cottage and emerged with healing potions, an overlarge tunic and baggy breeches. “Stay in the workers’ cottage,” he ordered. “If goldskins come here, you’re new labourers.”

            “Thank you,” Ulfric said gratefully. He’d make sure the lumberjack received a tax break for this.

            The night was spent uneventfully and in the rosy light of dawn, the two made their way along the Aalto’s edge. Ralof used his warhammer to good effect on several wolves and his Battle-Cry frightened away a bear.

            “How did you get exiled?” Ulfric finally asked somewhere below Morvunskar.

            “Hrongar was leading us on our ice wraith hunt – every year, Balgruuf gets all the Nords of fifteen summers together and sends us out – and the Thalmor wanted to question us,” Ralof replied tersely. “I smashed his head in, Hrongar and Avulstein got the other one. Idolaf and Hadvar and Laina did nothing. The two of them are pro-Imperial and the third just wants to tend to her fields in Rorikstead.”

            Ulfric nodded. “So Balgruuf exiled you to save face. Typical.”

            “Hrongar did.” Ralof shrugged.

            “Same thing. Hrongar hasn’t had an original thought in his life.” Ulfric looked askance at Ralof. “You look a lot like Balgruuf.”

            “He’s my second cousin. His grandfather was my great-grandfather. My mother’s the hetwoman of Riverwood.” Ralof sighed and looked at the White River. “I wanted to be a Companion. Now I’m an exile.”

            Ulfric clasped the youth’s shoulder and squeezed. “No, Ralof. You’re not an exile. You’re clever, able to weave plausible tales and think on your feet. I – Skyrim – needs men like you.”

            Ralof’s jaw set mulishly. “I’m not a spy.”

            Ulfric managed a smile. “I have no intention of making you one. But an agent who solves problems… Like an adventurer but with more honour and a purpose. That’s what I need.”

            He looked out at the vista of his beloved Windhelm. “It isn’t just the Thalmor who are our enemies, Ralof. The Empire itself has betrayed Skyrim. And I will see her free of it, even if I must die in the process.”

…

Sigdrifa was in the middle of reviewing a report from the boys’ tutor when Ulfric returned home, anonymous and unceremoniously. He was accompanied by a rangy golden-haired boy-man, both of them clad in gear barely fit for a churl, and practically fell into a chair at the high table. The marks of torture were clear on his filthy skin and his bottle-green eyes burned with a febrile light.

            “I wasn’t told you’d be released,” she said on entering the Great Hall.

            “The Empire wanted to surprise you,” he said with an echo of irony. “This is Ralof of Riverwood, a cousin to Balgruuf. He’s the reason I got home. I’m adding him to my personal guard.”

            “Understood.” Sigdrifa sized up Ralof with one glance. “Whose blood is that?”

            “Thalmor with a bit of wolf,” he replied.

            She cracked a smile. “Welcome to Windhelm.”

            “You honour me, Sigdrifa Stormsword.” Ralof was eyeing her closely. “I thought you’d be taller.”

            “Heh. We Kreathlings are runty little things.” She clapped her hands and the acting Steward, Torbjorn Shatter-Shield, entered the room. “Ulfric’s home. Keep the news locked down. He needs a bath, a healer and some food before I let the boys see him. Tell Galmar.”

            Torbjorn nodded and vanished with alacrity. Now Ulfric was home, assuming he was still competent, they could choose the high officers needed for the running of Eastmarch.

            Bathed, his hair and nails cut, Ulfric looked almost like his old self. Wuunferth had claimed it was mostly malnourishment that was the problem, so a few weeks of solid eating and exercise would mend that. As for his mind… Only time would tell.

            Sigdrifa led him out to the courtyard where the boys trained. Bjarni was nearly seven now and stood as tall as a nine-year old; Egil not too far from six and trailing after Njada like a puppy. Galmar was running them through the advanced combinations of the Nine Blows and Blocks with pot-metal weapons; sans Ulfric, she’d been able to accelerate their training.

            “With you gone, we needed to keep them busy,” she explained. “Galmar’s chosen the greatsword for Bjarni, the mace for Egil and the shield and sword for Njada.”

            “You’ve kept Eastmarch intact,” Ulfric finally said. “And our sons alive.”

            “I’ve done the best I can,” she admitted with a sigh. “I miss old Hoag. We didn’t like each other but we could work together for the good of Eastmarch.”

            Ulfric crumpled into her arms and began to weep. Sigdrifa turned her back so the boys didn’t see him cry, letting her husband release the grief and pain of the past few years. He was a broken man, she’d accepted during his captivity. She would have to mend him so he could serve his purpose.

            When he was done, she looked over the balcony and nodded to Galmar. The huscarl too understood the necessity of keeping Ulfric’s weaknesses hidden. If their enemies knew how vulnerable Eastmarch was…

            Bjarni, impetuous and emotional, threw himself on his father with a glad cry. Hoag had claimed Ulfric was much the same way as a boy. Sigdrifa would need to train it out of him. Or at least teach him to master the flaw.

            Egil, as exact and reserved as she could wish, followed and hugged Ulfric fiercely. She loved both her sons, she truly did, but Egil was her favourite.

            There were tears in Ulfric’s eyes but she said nothing.

            Ralof was seated at the high table between Bjarni and Egil. Much to her surprise, he knew how to use utensils beyond a knife and spoon. Some of the backwoods carls, franklins and even a fucking Thane or two ate like churls on a feast day, but while his manners were a bit coarse, Ralof at least knew what a fork was and not to drink from the mead until he swallowed his food. He could even chew with his mouth shut. Ulfric had found a gem with this boy, so Sigdrifa added him to her calculations and plans for Skyrim.

            But for the moment, she sat back and allowed herself a respite. Ulfric was safe home. Her attention would no longer be divided between rulership and conquest.

…

Hadvar reported the incident to his father as a good Legionnaire should, but not before drinking a whole bottle of Uncle Alvor’s homebrewed mead. Idolaf had been as shocked as anyone else at Ralof’s sudden murder of the Thalmor and Laina, the farmer-girl from Rorikstead, had kept her eyes down and mouth shut. There were rumours about the sudden increase in the soil’s fertility up in that direction, ranging from divine to Daedric intervention. Maybe she was used to keeping secrets.

            Tribune Harnbjorn chewed on a strip of jerky meditatively, his incredible mind percolating the possibilities, and Hadvar remained silent. He’d come straight from Riverwood to Helgen because hiding the murder of a Thalmor agent was a crime, even if the mer would have happily tortured them all to death. He didn’t know what to do.

            Finally, his father swallowed the jerky. “I might have done something similar to Hrongar if a kinsman was threatened,” he admitted. “But by the gods, I would have been a lot smarter about it. Do you know where the bodies are buried?”

            “Yes, sir,” Hadvar replied.

            “Good. Remember it. Balgruuf’s being cagy about paying his taxes lately. This kind of blackmail material might get him to cough up the septims.” Harnbjorn sighed. “I don’t particularly care about Ralof. I know he’s your friend but he’s always been an idiot. I’m more worried about you and Alvor.”

            “Uncle Alvor knows nothing,” Hadvar assured him.

            “Good.” Harnbjorn might have said more but someone knocked on the door to his office. “Legate Rikke, sir!” announced Quaestor Iulia.

            “Just who I need,” his father sighed. “Let her in.”

            He rose to his feet just as a broad-shouldered, square-jawed Paler entered. Her brown hair was pulled back into two braided locks and the shield on her back weighed probably half of Hadvar’s body weight. “At ease, Tribune,” she ordered.

            Hadvar scrambled to his feet to give the Legate his chair as Harnbjorn sank back into his seat. “What does the military governor want _now_?” he asked testily.

            Rikke’s smile was wry. “I’m here of my own accord. Officially, delivering new supplies to the garrison. Unofficially…” Her face lost its smile. “We need to talk about Eastmarch.”

            Harnbjorn sighed. “Of course. Ulfric’s been released and that hell-hag he calls a wife has been building up Eastmarch’s militia.”

            The Legate looked pointedly at Hadvar, who flushed. “Who’s the Auxiliary?”

            “My son Hadvar. And he’s not enlisted. Not yet.” Harnbjorn smiled proudly. “I just have him in my old scout armour to get used to it.”

            “He’d make a better barbar than a scout,” she said wryly. “Is this his full growth?”

            “No, Legate,” Hadvar said with a salute. “I’m always hungry and Aunt Sigrid says that means I’m still growing.”

            “T-Gods have mercy, boy. We’ll have to mine out a mountain or two to get the steel to properly outfit you.” Rikke tapped her bottom lip thoughtfully. “Harnbjorn, I’ve been looking for a… squire, I suppose. There’s not enough Nords in the upper echelons of the Legion, especially the elite like the Bruma Fourth or Haafingar First. If Hadvar’s got half your brains…”

            “I don’t want him in the Legion until sixteen,” Harnbjorn said softly. “Otherwise I’d say yes.”

            “So much the better,” Rikke said decisively. “That gives me a year to polish him up. We’re going to need good Legionnaires to counter the Stormcloaks if they go through with a rebellion.”

            Hadvar’s breath caught in his throat. Everyone knew about Legate Rikke, the first Skyrim-born Nord to reach the rank of Legate Primus in over fifty years. “Please, Father. With her connections…”

            “You could be more than some backwater Tribune looked down by every petty officer from the arse-end of Cyrodiil,” Harnbjorn finished with only a trace of bitterness. “How do you define ‘polish him up’, Rikke? I know how brutal Shieldmaiden training is and I don’t want my son undergoing it.”

            “Men don’t have the endurance or pain tolerance to handle it anyways,” Rikke said wryly. “If he’s your son, he’ll have the basic Legion training already. What I mean to do is teach him tactics, strategy and how to eat at a Cyrod dinner table without pissing the Count of Bruma off.”

            Harnbjorn laughed ruefully. “I didn’t know the bowl was a dinner arrangement, not a salad.”

            “Precisely.” Her smile was wry. Then her expression sobered. “The Legion is still understaffed and many of the rising officers are… more amenable to the Thalmor than I like. I accept the need for the White-Gold Concordat in the short term, but I need to think about after the Great War veterans are dead. We need Nord soldiers like Hadvar to be prepared to carry the fight to the Dominion once again.”

            His father nodded sombrely. “Understood, Rikke. You have my permission, if it’s what Hadvar wants.”

            “It is,” Hadvar said proudly. To fight for the Empire – for Talos! – but doing it intelligently instead of Ralof’s little temper tantrum, which got him exiled for his troubles.

            Harnbjorn’s expression was sad but proud as he rested his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Then you better head back to Riverwood and grab what you need. Knowing Rikke, she’ll be leaving in a couple days.”

            “Three,” the Legate said. “We need to scout for those old Akaviri passes too.”

            Hadvar saluted. He would make them both proud.


	5. Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, torture, child abuse/neglect, war crimes, criminal acts, trauma and religious persecution.

 

The seasons turned from spring to summer to autumn to winter. In Eastmarch, spring was the time of scouting, summer the time of raiding in Morrowind or on the seas, autumn the time to harvest the Thanes and franklins who didn’t voluntarily contribute to the cause, and winter the time to plan the next year’s raiding. For most of Whiterun Hold, spring was for sowing, summer for trade, autumn for harvest and winter for celebration. Rorikstead was the exception, as spring was Forsworn raiding to restock their larders during planting season, summer was fending off bandits during the first harvest and second sowing, autumn sending Forsworn back over the border with scorched tails while bringing in the second harvest and sowing winter crops, and winter the time to share knowledge among themselves. To the northwest in Solitude, life revolved around the Legion and the Blue Palace no matter the season.

            It had been two years since Laina went off on her ice wraith hunt and returned, just shy of Sun’s Dawn and her seventeenth birthday. The cruel winds of winter were beginning to ease subtly and Reldith was already planning the spring crops. Rorik had balanced the books between the Day of Lights, a Redguard holiday for good farming and fishing, and the Waking Day of the Bretons celebrated by Jouane. There was a generous surplus for everyone involved; once you were old enough to work, you were old enough to receive an appropriate portion of the proceeds. Even young Erik was to receive a handful of septims to spend as he pleased. So he gathered everyone in the Frostfruit Inn, which was due to be rethatched in the spring, and announced that the next trading trip for Jouane and Ennis would be to Solitude, not Whiterun. _That_ set the community abuzz as Reldith, Mralki’s wife Lilah and Lemkil’s wife Gydda immediately put in requests for new herbs, sewing supplies and brewing supplies respectively. “Don’t forget something to while next winter away,” Rorik added with a grin. “We did really quite well last year.”

            Erik wanted a sword and Jouane promised the finest wooden one available to the boy’s delight and Mralki’s frown. The innkeeper had been one of Rorik’s veterans during the Great War and he knew that the experience left scars.

            Rorik himself wanted a new bearskin coverlet. He was feeling the winter more these days and Jouane’s Restoration spells could only do so much. Laina offered to teach him how to keep himself warm with magic but Rorik, old soldier that he was, declined. He did let her cast low-powered Fire Runes on the walls though.

            “Do you want anything?” he asked his adoptive daughter as she played cat’s cradle in the corner. While everyone with a bit of magic put their energy into making the soil lush and the crops grow vigorously, she did the most. When raiders came, it was her who turned them back with lessening support from Jouane and Reldith. His husband was certain that if she went to Winterhold, she’d become Arch-Mage. Rorik was selfish enough to want to keep her here for a little longer.

            “I’m good,” Laina replied.

            “Are you certain?” he asked gently.

            “I said so, didn’t I?” she asked, showing just a hint of teenage peevishness that relieved Rorik to hear. Ever since he’d picked up the sleeping girl by the road, she’d acted like a miniature adult for the most part. The Great War had stolen the innocence of a whole generation, a generation that was coming to adulthood right about now and seething with the repressed anger of the denied.

            But since her return from the ice wraith hunt two years ago, Laina had been even more subdued. Rorik feared the worst and also knew she wouldn’t tell him or Jouane.

            He let it go but studied her with the eyes of the commander and hetman. Laina had never been one for ostentation, preferring to fade into the background and achieving that quite neatly on occasion. Her clothing was deliberately drab, goat’s wool and cotton in browns, and she eschewed even the carved beads and copper bangles other girls wore. Her black hair was divided into two tails, each one wrapped around with leather thongs, that hung to just above her waist. Freckles dusted her olive-bronze skin and she walked softly. No one remarked on the old whipping scars on her back, the few times they’d been seen. She’d had those when Rorik found her.

            Everyone in Rorikstead was scarred in some way. But sometimes Rorik feared Laina’s scars hid dangerous secrets.

            Later on, he lingered with Jouane over a pint of mead in the common room, Mralki and Lilah gone to bed. “Something’s wrong with Laina,” he told the Breton.

            Jouane snorted. “I know. Something happened on her ice wraith hunt, something that ended with Ralof of Riverwood being exiled to Eastmarch and Hadvar being hustled into Legion service.”

            Rorik’s mouth tightened grimly. “Do you think they…?”

            “I think there was a death.” Jouane rubbed his balding head. “Idolaf and Avulstein were there too.”

            “One’s in the Legion…”

            “And the other’s making swords with his father.” Jouane pursed his lips. “I might be able to prevail on the Companions to get some answers.”

            Rorik nodded. “I might ask some questions among my old Legion friends. Laina was hiding from something even as a child. If we know what it is, we can protect her.”

…

“May I congratulate you on locating such a _wonderful_ shithole in which to make your home?”

            Skjor, older, more grizzled and missing an eye, grinned up at the stocky Redguard who took a seat at his table without leave. “Whiterun is one of the greatest, most prosperous and storied cities in Skyrim, Irkand.”

            “I’m not looking forward to visiting the others then,” the Redguard said as he waved down Hulda. “It’s good to know the Legion didn’t get everyone killed at Red Ring.”

            “They damned near tried and the Thalmor put in their best effort too,” Skjor said dryly, ordering two bottles of mead. “I’m a little surprised to see you this far north though. Imperial territory can’t be safe for your family.”

            Irkand’s smile was a frosty thing, reminding Skjor that despite the man’s honour, he was a calculating assassin. “I could parade in full Blades regalia in front of that bitch Elenwen and she can’t lay a hand on me. Diplomatic immunity is a wonderful thing when it pisses off your enemies.”

            “How the fuck did you manage to get diplomatic immunity?” Skjor asked bluntly. “I thought all of Tamriel wanted you dead.”

            “Only half,” Irkand replied dryly. “Hammerfell tolerates me because I’m the best at what I do.”

            “I knew the Alik’r were pragmatists but _damn_.” Skjor whistled in awe at the sheer balls of both Irkand and the crack military order that protected Hammerfell.

            Hulda brought the mead and Irkand tipped her with a handful of septims. “So this is the horse piss your people drink for religious purposes?” he asked, examining the golden-yellow liquid.

            “It’s better than Colovian brandy,” Skjor said sarcastically.

            “Of course it is. Colovian brandy has a drop of Mede piss put into it for that special flavour.”

            “You know diplomatic immunity can be revoked,” Skjor pointed out. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but…”

            Irkand’s grin was wolfish. “My brother’s the Ambassador.”

            “…Rustem Aurelius, the man-slut of Bruma, is the Hammerfell Ambassador to Skyrim?” Skjor downed the bottle of mead and waved Hulda over for another. “Are the Redguards trying to start a war?”

            “We’re reminding the Empire and Sigdrifa’s friends that we don’t march to the tune of the Mede dynasty or Talos anymore,” Irkand replied, his voice going deadly soft.

            Skjor decided to change the subject. Politics was a dangerous business for a Companion. “What brings you so far from Solitude?”

            “My niece.” Irkand sipped from the bottle gingerly, grimacing a little. Redguards had no taste for drink. “Callaina went missing between Cloud Ruler Temple and Windhelm. Sigdrifa and Dengeir are swearing she was never married. My brother’s happy to maintain the fiction for… _considerations_ … from Windhelm and Falkreath but he still very much wants to know what happened to his daughter.”

            “Well, if she’s alive, she won’t be going by that name,” Skjor observed. “Unless you’re prepared to hire the Companions, the best I can do is put the word out quietly. Lots of displaced younglings scampering about. We have two of them in Jorrvaskr: Farkas and Vilkas.”

            “Thick and Thin the Hero-Twins?” Irkand asked with an ironic smile.

            “Show some respect, Irkand,” Skjor warned softly. “Those two are the youngest Companions to achieve the Circle.”

            “Huh.” Irkand didn’t apologise. Not that Skjor was expecting him too. “I’m wanting to hire Hroti the Huntress. Her tracking ability is legendary in Hammerfell.”

            Skjor sighed. “Hroti’s dead,” he said. “But her daughter Aela is just as good.”

            “Then I’ll hire her,” Irkand said decisively. “I followed the trail from the Serpent’s Trail to Falkreath. It’s from Falkreath to… wherever Callaina is… that I wish to discover. My Clairvoyance isn’t working.”

            “Aela can do that,” Skjor said. “It’ll be five hundred septims at least.  We’re not cheap, Irkand.”

            The Blade’s smile was a little twisted. “If I wanted cheap, I’d’ve hired you.”

…

“I can’t tell you.”

            Avulstein quenched the dagger he’d just made, avoiding Jouane’s gaze. The old man had made a trip to Whiterun just to talk to him about what was wrong with Laina.

            “Why not?” the Breton pressed.

            “Jarl’s orders.” Well, Hrongar’s reinforced by Balgruuf, but same thing.

            “Who died, Avulstein?”

            The young smith dropped the dagger into the trough, ruining it. “How did you guess?”

            “I had a checkered past before meeting Rorik.” Jouane clasped his hands patiently. “I can keep a secret. I just need to know why Laina is so scared.”

            That… was reasonable enough. Avulstein himself had walked away from the ice wraith hunt more than a little scared of Hrongar. Being made to dig a grave with his bare hands under the cold gaze of the Jarl’s brother did that to a man. “Ralof killed a Thalmor,” he whispered. “Hrongar and me killed the other but we had to hide it.”

            Jouane sighed. “Of course. Balgruuf wouldn’t want to threaten his precious neutrality.”

            “Laina looked scared but relieved,” Avulstein continued quietly. “I think she was more scared of the Thalmor than Hrongar.”

            “All he would do is kill you,” Jouane said softly. “The Thalmor would do far, far worse.”

            He sighed. “Thank you, Avulstein. You’ve explained much.” The old man reached over and touched his forehead. “It’s not your fault and you have nothing to fear. Forget this meeting.”

            Avulstein blinked. Daydreaming again and he’d fucked up another dagger. His Da was going to be annoyed. They didn’t have steel to waste.

…

“Lovely little hamlet.”

            Laina was hoeing the cabbage field in preparation for the first sowing in a few days when, unnoticed, the Redguard in his strange robes had walked up to her. She concealed her start of surprise from long practice and looked up at him sourly. “Solitude’s that way,” she said, pointing to the northwest. “It’ll be more to your taste.”

            “Too many Imperials for my tastes,” he said dryly. He was stockier than most of his kind with a beaky broken nose. Just beyond the field stood a grey-ponytailed man in wolf-emblazoned armour and a lithe redhead in armour that was… decorative.

            “Then Falkreath’s that way,” she suggested. “You can stop there on the way back home.”

            There was something familiar about him, something to the dread that lingered inside her constantly. She wanted him _gone._

“I thought the people of Rorikstead had better manners,” the old Companion observed mildly.

            “We do when some smartarse isn’t insulting our village,” she retorted. “We built this up from nothing. I’d like to see Mr. Alik’r here turn dust and cow shit to crops with his bare hands.”

            “I don’t have your talent for Alteration, Lia,” the Redguard said calmly.

            “My name’s Laina. Go away!” Her voice was rising. She wanted him gone!

            “Is something wrong, Laina?” Ennis, his hoe in his hands, was walking towards them.

            “I’m sorry,” the Redguard said to the boy. “I mistook her for someone I knew.”

            He suddenly looked sad. “Be safe… Laina.”

            The Alik’r walked away and joined the Companion and the redhead. They spoke briefly and headed back towards Whiterun.

            Laina ignored Ennis’ surprised look and returned to the hoeing. She had to stay hidden. She had to.


	6. Bargain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism. I don’t like Korir’s monofocused ‘I hate the College because they’re arseholes’ spiel, so I’m making it a bit more nuanced. He’s devoted to his Hold but doesn’t have the capital (or willingness to work with the College) to lift it out of poverty.

 

The seasons changed and the stars danced between the moons in the night-black sky as they always had. The generation that were children during the Great War came to adulthood and the children born in its aftermath grew hearty and strong. Sigdrifa leaned over the map-table in the war room across from Ulfric and Galmar. Eastmarch was subdued to their will, the Imperial-loyal Thanes dead or driven into exile. Winterhold, isolated and diminished, had just come under the rule of the young bitter Korir. The Great Collapse had shattered the Hold and destroyed the former capital of Skyrim. Only the most tenacious or those with ties to the College remained. She supposed Korir figured it was better to be a Jarl in a stagnant pond than a freeman somewhere else.

            “The new Jarl of Winterhold is ripe for alliance,” she said calmly. “Istlod refused his request that the College of Winterhold be moved elsewhere because the Empire deemed it unnecessary.”

            Galmar grunted. “Mages are unnatural.”

            “ _I’m_ something of a mage, by the very technical definition of the Thu’um _Ulfric_ is a mage, and Wuunferth’s the only one keeping your bones from aching at night,” she reminded the huscarl. “Magic is useful, though I’d prefer the College closer to a major city so we can keep an eye on it.”

            “Without the College, Winterhold will fade and die,” Ulfric pointed out.

            “Maybe not. Morthal’s in a draugr-infested bog and the bloody place still exists,” Sigdrifa observed dryly. “It’s something of a pity we can’t switch Jarls around. Idgrod would be close to useful dealing with the College and Korir would be content living in a bog because it means he can be king toad of the pond.”

            “You’re terrible,” Galmar growled.

            “You’ve just noticed?”

            Ulfric snorted. “Enough. Sigdrifa, you think it’s time to reach out to the other Jarls?”

            “Father’s always been on our side,” she reminded him. “Or do you think those disaffected Bruma Nords are coming out of nowhere?”

            “Can we trust Colovian Nords yet?” Galmar asked. “I’ll grant Oengus War-Anvil’s useful but I’m not so sure about this Thorygg Sun-Killer. What the hell kind of name is that?”

            “The kind earned when you beat three Thalmor Justicars to death with their soldier’s own warhammer,” Sigdrifa responded dryly. “Or did you think he carries that elven warhammer for amusement?”

            Galmar grunted approvingly. “I suppose he’s not so bad.”

            “Of course he isn’t. He’s from Clan Break-the-Spear and they were one of the lesser clans that supplied the Blades, just like the War-Anvils.” Sigdrifa allowed herself a smile as light dawned in Galmar’s eyes. “The Blades proper are dead or scattered, but the surviving civilians are angry, vengeful and fucking useful.”

            “We’ll still watch them for treachery,” Ulfric added. “Falkreath is with us and Skald’s champing at the bit in Dawnstar to throw the Empire out.”

            Sigdrifa rolled her eyes. “I appreciate his loyalty and enthusiasm but it’s nowhere near the time to strike.”

            “He’s old. He wants to die in a free Skyrim.” Ulfric rubbed his bearded jaw. “I’ll send Frorkmar Banner-Torn there as an… adviser. He’s got the caution and discipline Skald lacks.”

            “You know the soldiers better than I, Ulfric.” Sigdrifa was a general. Individual soldiers, while appreciated, weren’t her problem. It was the commanders and the exceptions like Ulfric’s Ralof who were. “Korir and Laila are the ones we have to convince.”

            “Laila is a woman of tradition,” Ulfric said. “She will fall into line. It’s Maven Black-Briar I’m worried about.”

            “Don’t even bother,” Galmar rumbled. “She holds the Legion supply contracts from Cheydinhal to the Rift.”

            Galmar had a point. “I’ll have people start gathering information on her… ties. If we can prove wrongdoing, Laila can execute her and expropriate her holdings.”

            “Riften should be burned and rebuilt from the ground up,” Ulfric said sourly. “The Thieves’ Guild…”

            “Are better than complete anarchy on the streets,” Sigdrifa reminded him. “I occasionally use them. When we’ve reclaimed Skyrim, we can worry about cracking down on crime.”

            “When will that be?” Galmar asked. “I know that this sort of thing takes time, but Skyrim is dying inch by inch.”

            “Honestly? I want Bjarni and Egil to be in fosterage, if not of age, before we make our move,” Sigdrifa admitted. “We’ll need to be able to act freely and without having to worry about the boys’ inheritance. If we fall…”

            “They’ll need to be able to step into the fight,” Ulfric finished. “You’re talking about seven or eight years.”

            “Talos’ campaign to take Hammerfell took ten years of planning,” she reminded him. “We must have the Old Holds, the heart of Skyrim, in our grasp and totally loyal to us before we move.”

            “Speaking of Redguards…”

            “What has Rustem done now?” Hammerfell was playing its own game. Sigdrifa appreciated the Redguards’ fighting ability and their further weakening of the Thalmor, but she worried Arius might have passed on his Imperial ambitions to his sons. High King Sura was reportedly mostly ornamental these days, ruled by his kinsman Beroc of Dragonstar, a wily old veteran and general.

            “Agreed to our terms,” Ulfric said calmly.

            “What’s it going to cost us?”

            “Rustem apparently rules the city of Elinhir. He’s wanting to expand and that means lumber.”

            Sigdrifa sighed. “Tell him he can have a discount. I’m not beggaring Falkreath to bribe him.”

            “We need to start thinking about the succession there too,” Ulfric said after nodding. “I love you, but Jarl material you are not.”

            “Father’s strong enough to hold on until Bjarni or Egil are of age,” Sigdrifa said reassuringly. “Siddgeir’s still in Cyrodiil, thank Talos.”

            “He could be trouble,” Galmar said. “He’s Balgeir’s son.”

            “And by the time he returns to Skyrim, _if_ he returns, he’ll be good for nothing but decoration,” she said calmly. “The Thanes will choose one of our sons over him, easily.”

            “I hope you’re right,” Galmar said dubiously.

            “I am,” she said confidently. “Now, we need to court Korir… in a matter of speaking. While keeping on the College’s good side because we need mages.”

            “Leave that to me,” Ulfric said. “I knew Korir before I went to High Hrothgar. I doubt he’s changed much.”

…

Winterhold was even bleaker than Ulfric remembered. Gisla, Korir’s mother, hadn’t even ordered the ruined cottages to be demolished and materials salvaged. His grandfather had lost the will to live after the Great Collapse destroyed everything.

            Ralof looked around at the buildings that comprised the capital of the Hold, counting under his fingers before shaking his head. “Is this it? Riverwood has twice as many cottages.”

            “Yes,” Ulfric confirmed softly. “Winterhold was hit hard by the Great Collapse. Jarl Korir the First just… gave up. Gisla was practically a drunk. The new Jarl blames the College for everything because it stayed intact where Winterhold didn’t.”

            The Plainsman nodded. “Is he right?”

            “I don’t know nor do I care.” Ulfric nodded at a curious-looking guard in Winterhold’s pale blue. “Korir is Jarl of Winterhold and must be respected. The College could stand be relocated closer to civilisation.”

            “Good luck finding a Hold who will have it.”

            Ulfric smirked wryly. He appreciated Ralof’s dry humour as a change from Galmar’s belligerence or Sigdrifa’s pragmatism. “Maybe Hjaalmarch will have them. Idgrod’s line are known for their magic.”

            “A use for Morthal? Truly, you are blessed with great insight by Talos.”

            The Jarl of Windhelm chuckled as they reached the longhouse. Two-storied and made of wood, the thatching was in disrepair and some of the window panes at the top broken. Only the tattered banners revealed it as the residence of Winterhold’s Jarl. Ulfric couldn’t believe Gisla had let things get so bad.

            Korir, a medium-sized man with the auburn hair of his Reacher ancestors (back in the day when the Jarls of Winterhold welcomed magic), was arguing with a well-dressed Colovian Nord. “That’s one of our most priceless heirlooms!”

            “Then it might cover some of the tax debt,” the man said roughly. “As Jarl of Winterhold, you are responsible for all debts owed to the Empire. That’s two thousand septims, by the way.”

            “Son of a…” Ralof breathed. “You can’t get blood from a stone.”

            “Jarl Korir!” Ulfric bellowed across the hall, drawing their attention. “I came for that meeting you wanted.”

            “Meeting?” the tax collector asked with a sneer. “Are you one of these ‘Thanes’ I hear about it?”

            “Winterhold has no Thanes,” Korir said bitterly. “We can’t support them.”

            “I am Ulfric Stormcloak, son of Hoag the Mighty, Jarl of Windhelm,” Ulfric informed the tax collector calmly. “Jarl Korir is my neighbour and kinsman through my wife, Sigdrifa Stormsword. We were to meet to discuss how to raise Winterhold’s capital in the wake of Jarl Gisla’s death.”

            The kinship between Sigdrifa and Korir was a stretched one but this Imperial in Nord guise didn’t need to know that.

            Korir flashed him a relieved look. “Aye,” he agreed. “Since you were a _month_ early, you caught me unprepared… just after my mother’s death. My kinsman is experienced at rule and I hoped to learn from him.”

            The tax collector pursed his lips. He was about to say something, probably snide judging by his expression, but Ralof shifted dangerously. “The Empire could grant you a temporary reprieve,” he finally said in a reasonably polite tone.

            “But the interest would build,” Ulfric pointed out. “Return in a month and the goods will be ready.”

            _“Coin,”_ the collector said firmly. “All taxes are to be paid in coin or service now.”

            “Then it will be in coin. Now leave.” Ulfric crossed his arms and stared the man down.

            The tax collector slunk away and when the door was closed, Korir swore savagely. “Mother sold just about everything to feed our people! We have little enough left to pay those vultures!”

            “Doesn’t the College pay tax?” Ralof blurted in disbelief.

            “They pay in direct service to the Empire,” Korir said bitterly. “First they destroy our Hold and then they refuse to pay their share.”

            He sighed and buried his face in his hands. “Ulfric, I won’t have the coin, even if I were to sell what remains in a month.”

            “I have some thoughts on that,” Ulfric said gently. “Thoughts that will benefit both of us.”

            Korir lowered his hands and nodded towards a table and chairs. “I’d sell my soul if I thought it’d feed my people.”

            They sat down and Korir poured a shot of mead for them each. “We don’t even have good mead,” he admitted. “We all just eat at the inn these days.”

            Ulfric leaned back, cradling his tankard. “I can save your soul, Korir. Winterhold is isolated and forgotten by the Empire at the moment. That… may be Skyrim’s salvation.”

            Korir raised an eyebrow. “I thought you learned your lesson after Markarth?”

            Ulfric winced inwardly but only bared his teeth in a grim smile. “I learned the cost of premature action at Markarth, Korir. I like to think Sigdrifa and I got a bit smarter after that.”

            The Jarl of Winterhold sipped from his tankard. “So she’s running the show.”

            “It’s a three-man show. I’m giving the orders, Sigdrifa’s making the plans and Galmar’s carrying them out.” Ulfric smiled again, this time a little less grimly. “The children of the Great War are coming to adulthood and they’re angry. You, yourself, are one of them.”

            Korir nodded cautiously. “That damn war destroyed Mother’s plans. If we didn’t have to fight for Talos…”

            “Precisely.” So Gisla _had_ been making plans to rebuild Winterhold. Interesting. “It’s going to take between eight to ten years before we can even consider making another move. We need resources, troops and… heirs in place to continue the fight if things go wrong.”

            “You need trained commanders,” Korir said quietly. “You need Legion veterans to grow disgusted with the Empire to provide them.”

            Ulfric blinked in surprise. He’d hoped to train up his own… but Korir had a point. “That is something I hadn’t considered, kinsman.”

            “Half of Winterhold’s guards are such people. I can’t spare them, but it’s only because I have the veterans we’ve managed to beat off three bandit raids since I became Jarl.” Korir’s smile was bitter. “As you said, we’re isolated and forgotten by the Empire until it’s tax time.”

            “Precisely,” Ulfric repeated. “I need somewhere to train troops. Sigdrifa can only raise the Eastmarch militia so much before the Empire takes notice.”

            “Train them against the bandits and beasties bothering my people,” Korir said simply. “That will free up coin to pay for food and tax.”

            “We think alike,” Ulfric grinned. “Now, I’ve been giving thought to the College. Skyrim needs mages, whether we like it or not.”

            Korir scowled. “They destroyed Winterhold!”

            “Probably. I was thinking, when I’m High King, of moving them to Haafingar. Idgrod’s comfortable with magic and she can foresee trouble.”

            Korir grunted. “I’d prefer them dead. But if they leave the Hold, that’s good enough for me.”

            “Excellent.” Ulfric sipped from his tankard. “For the troops, I’ll need a local veteran.”

            “Kai Wet-Pommel,” Korir said quickly. “My guard captain. Hunter who fought in the Great War. Hates Thalmor-“

            “I trust your judgment in this,” Ulfric interrupted with a smile. “I will, of course, pay wergild for depriving you of a talented commander… and compensation for hosting my troops.”

            Korir looked pathetically grateful. “Thank you, kinsman.”

            Ulfric continued to smile, clasping his fellow Jarl’s hand. “When Skyrim is free, it will be us thanking you, Korir.”


	7. Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, torture, genocide, child abuse/neglect and religious persecution. Skipping ahead in time over the next few chapters because this prequel will end just before Helgen. I’m also reading up on Viking agriculture to see what fruits could be grown in a climate like Skyrim (honestly, there should be more barley and oats. Wheat wasn’t a major grain of the Norse).

 

“You’re twenty-one now, Laina.”

            Laina looked up at Jouane as she weeded the herb garden for Reldith, who was busy helping Ennis load up the wagon. “And?”

            Four years since the familiar stranger came to Rorikstead. Four quiet years where the most excitement had been Forsworn and bandit raids or the tax collector paying a visit. Rorik and Ennis had managed to negotiate a deal with the Haafingar First Legion to pay their taxes in crops instead of coin. Lemkil’s wife had died in childbirth, leaving twin daughters that the man mistreated terribly, and young Erik was twelve, doing a man’s work on Lemkil’s plot and learning the sword from Rorik.

            Jouane looked a little taken aback by her question and she smiled to take the sting out of it. “I’m fine, Jouane. I honestly don’t want anything more than to live in Rorikstead and work the fields.”

            “You have the kind of magical talent that comes along once a generation…” Jouane fell silent, shaking his head. “You’re being wasted, child. It’s like using a destrier to plough fields.”

            “The Forsworn provide me with plenty of practice for Destruction spells,” she said dryly. Mind you, since that new Hagraven took over Serpent’s Bluff, the Forsworn had made tentative attempts at trading. Well, she could only assume that was why they snuck across the border at night, emptied the sacrificial caches Rorik left for them, and put their strange trinkets, uncut gems and raw ore in the pits.

            “Raids have dropped on that front,” Jouane observed, following her line of thought.

            “I think the Icy Spear through the last Hagraven did that,” she said dryly. “They’ve been leaving stuff in the caches now.”

            “You noticed that too? Interesting…” Jouane rubbed his chin. “But you’re not deflecting me so easy, Laina. You’ve been an adult for six years and earning an adult’s share since twelve. It’s… a considerable amount of money, even with the books we buy you. Rorik’s a little uncomfortable with that much coin about, honestly.”

            “Buy more land,” Laina said with a shrug. “We should be expanding anyway. Reldith tells me the climate’s perfect for pomiculture. Let’s grow fruit and berries.”

            Jouane’s eyebrow went up. “You want to grow fruit?”

            “Why not? We buy our fruit when it’s more than possible to establish an orchard,” Laina pointed out. “It’ll take a few years to establish fruit trees, but if we plant berry bushes within the next month, they’ll be ready by next year.”

            “This is what you truly want?” Jouane asked, watching her carefully.

            “Yes,” Laina said simply. “I don’t lust for power or glory. Bad things happen when you do.”

            Jouane sighed. “I know about what happened during your ice wraith hunt.”

            “I’m not surprised.” Laina picked a bug off the comfrey. “I don’t remember much before you found me. I don’t _want_ to remember. But I remember my family wanted power and glory. My own mother… She told me to forget who I was because if I didn’t, a lot of innocent people would die.”

            “I’ve made some educated guesses myself based on political events during the Great War, where we found you and that Redguard who was asking questions here,” Jouane finally said.

            _“This,”_ Laina gestured around Rorikstead, “Is my home. _You_ are my family. I want no fame. No power. No glory.”

            “Or if you become known, you’ll be known as a farmer,” Jouane said quietly. “I thought all Nords were supposed to want Sovngarde.”

            “My mother’s likely to end up there,” Laina said flatly. “And I remember enough to know that life with her was hell. Why would I want to share an afterlife with her?”

            Jouane nodded slowly. “Rorik and I will buy the land for the orchard in your name, Laina. You will be a franklin with full voting rights in the Holdmoot. And… unless the folk decided otherwise… you will eventually be hetwoman of Rorikstead. Sooner, if Balgruuf gets his way and makes Rorik a Thane.”

            “Balgruuf wants Rorik to shoulder more of a burden for guards,” Laina observed sardonically. “Even though we’ve been guarding ourselves for nearly fifteen years.”

            “Yes,” Jouane agreed. “But Rorik’s becoming a voice of moderation in the Holdmoot, what with the Battle-Borns planting their lips on the Legion’s arse and the Grey-Manes bellowing the praises of Ulfric Stormcloak. Balgruuf, for all his faults, is trying to stave off civil war.”

            “It will happen whether he likes it or not.”

            “Maybe.” Jouane sighed and rested his hand on her head. “In a perfect world, you could grow your fruit in peace. We’d all be left alone. But it’s going to be the folks like us that stop those idiots from tearing Skyrim apart.”

…

“I don’t suppose I could talk you into moving that orchard closer to Whiterun?” Jarl Balgruuf the Greater asked dryly.

            “It’s our daughter’s share,” Rorik, the richest farmer in the Hold, said simply. His husband Jouane stood to the right and Laina, the foundling they’d rescued just after the Great War, was to the left. “It’s her choice.”

            The girl – no, woman – shrank back a little as Balgruuf turned his attention to her. Hrongar had called her a scared little mouse after the ice wraith hunt. Twenty-one and not even a suitor to her name. Reportedly devoted to her fathers. Said to be one of the reasons why Rorikstead’s soil had gone from lifeless dust to the finest in Whiterun in fifteen years. Most Nords with magical talent went to the College but this one… was happy farming.

            “How’d you change the soil?” Balgruuf asked. “I need to know she can run a farm on her own before I approve anything.”

            “Manure and Alteration magic,” Laina responded. “It’s… just a quickening of the reclamation processes your great-grandfather authorised at Riverwood. Pile loads of cow shit on dirt, toss in some straw, and turn it over until it’s compost. Plant a half-crop of winter rye in autumn, plough it under a few weeks before spring planting, and then put in some cabbages. Harvest those over the course of summer and once it’s autumn, plant something like winter peas. Rotate crops and every other year, let the field rest after a manuring. What generally takes five or six years took us three because Jouane, Reldith and I were using magic to speed up the process.”

            “Reldith’s the Altmer who came to us with Ennis fourteen years ago,” Rorik said. “She prefers to stay in Rorikstead and oversees the fields.”

            “Once the soil’s reclaimed, it’s better to not use magic on it,” Laina continued. “Force-growing seedlings or cuttings in a pot is one thing – you’re replacing nutrients daily – but once in the fields, it’ll suck up the goodness in the soil and weaken the plants.”

            Balgruuf nodded slowly. “Reldith’s idea?”

            “Pretty much,” Rorik confirmed. “Altmer farmers use such techniques and so do some Bretons. I was expecting it to take longer to reclaim that land, even with Jouane’s help, but Reldith and Laina made it happen far sooner.”

            “To hear Nazeem and Alfhild Battle-Born, you’ve made a deal with the Daedra and are stealing the souls of children to feed the soil,” Balgruuf said wryly. “Farengar…?”

            The court wizard folded his hands primly. “Danica and Arcadia use similar techniques, just on a far smaller scale, my Jarl. Colette and Tolfdir up at the College, the Restoration and Alteration masters, work together on the gardens in a similar manner.”

            Balgruuf nodded again. “Good. Rorik, I’m going to approve this orchard on the condition it’s planted near Whiterun, either just beyond Battle-Born or Pelagia Farms.”

            “I must respectfully disagree,” Laina said firmly. “Jarl Balgruuf, Forsworn raids have dropped because I’ve matched their shamans in magical combat. Remove me from Rorikstead and you’ll have to station guards there.”

            “I plan to station some guards there regardless,” Balgruuf answered. “Your loyalty to your kin does you credit, Laina, but I need land closer to home reclaimed. Rorikstead’s already pushing at the borders of Haafingar and the Reach. The only land truly suitable for an orchard would spill over the border somewhere.”

            She looked dismayed and Rorik’s eyes narrowed. “I was hoping she’d become hetwoman, my Jarl.”

            “A village doesn’t need a Thane and a hetwoman, Rorik.” Balgruuf raised his hand to forestall their protests. “I’ll sweeten the deal. I’ll personally acquire any seed crops Laina wants to grow and have my workers build her a small cottage. How long do you think it’ll take to establish an orchard?”

            “I was planning to grow a combination of berries and fruit trees,” Laina said quietly. “Berries, if planted within the next month, will be fruiting by next year. The fruit trees will take several years growing from seed.”

            Balgruuf rubbed his bearded chin, leaning back in his seat. “What if I can acquire saplings?”

            “Still a few years.” Laina sighed and tugged at one of those thong-wrapped tails of hair that hung over her shoulders. If it wasn’t for the quality of her garments, Balgruuf would have taken her for a churl by their drab brown hue. “Longer if I’m reclaiming land on my own, Jarl. Rorikstead’s already fertile. You’ll have crops quicker if I’m there.”

            “Nice try, woman.” Balgruuf smiled wryly. “I can be patient. What I can’t have is Rorikstead becoming too tempting a target for… annexation. Istlod’s trying to reinforce his borders because of Ulfric’s shield-banging and a Rorikstead that’s become too successful would be a good way to prove to the Jarl of Windhelm that the High King has teeth.”

            “Bastards,” Rorik said bitterly. Balgruuf assumed that he was referring to all Jarls, including him.

            “Yes. Skyrim isn’t ready for another war, be it with the Dominion or be it among ourselves,” Balgruuf agreed. “You were a soldier and commander once, Rorik. I need you as a Thane to counter Vignar and Olfrid. The guards will answer to _you_.”

            Laina exchanged glances with her fathers. He couldn’t figure out if those large eyes were blue or green. There was also something hauntingly familiar about her beaky nose, high cheekbones and square jaw, but Balgruuf couldn’t place it. Rorik had said when adopting her that she’d been found sleeping by the road in southern Whiterun near the Falkreath border.

            “You can bargain, you know,” Jouane said gently in Breton. “If Balgruuf won’t budge, you should get what you can from him.”

            The woman looked back at the Jarl. “I’d like the land between the road from Riverwood and behind the Honningbrew Meadery and Pelagia Farm up to the foothills of Bleak Falls Barrow. I’ll plant snowberry hedges along the snowline because they grow best there and blackthorn bushes towards Gudrun Rock to deter the mammoths. The cottage can be built from the cleared stone and lumber. Maybe put in a couple retaining walls to create terraces. Give me a couple workers unafraid of magic and I can get it cleared in a week and ready for tree-planting by next spring.”

            It was late spring now. Balgruuf mulled over her counteroffer. He supposed trees took up a lot of space. “Done,” he said decisively. “Two workers, you say?”

            “Aye. Preferably men or Orcs. It’s mostly heavy lifting I’ll need help with.”

            “I’ll put out the call. How many hours a day are we talking about?”

            “Sunrise to sunset. I’ll feed them.”

            Balgruuf blinked. “You’re talking a fourteen-hour day.”

            “…You mean people work _less_ on a farm during summer?” Laina shook her head in surprise. “More like twelve. I’ll give them regular breaks. But they’ll be working to Rorikstead’s pace, Jarl.”

            The Jarl’s respect for Rorik’s people grew. No wonder he was able to farm so much land with so few people. “I may have to rotate workers.”

            “You know more about your people than I, Jarl.” Laina’s mouth tightened. “Give me a few days to return to Rorikstead. I have belongings to get and farewells to make.”

            Balgruuf nodded. “Done.”

            “Done.”


	8. Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, fantastic racism, child soldiers and violence involving minors.

 

Sigdrifa planted another blue flag on the map. Fort Dunstad was now under Stormcloak control, access to Dawnstar’s port via Whiterun now at her will. This process of hiring bandits to clear out the Legion soldiers and then having them purged by Ulfric’s militia was efficient. She wondered if Skald, Korir and Laila realised that Windhelm had complete control over the flow of traffic in their Holds. Probably not. Each Jarl was so stupid or focused on their personal issues that they failed to see the bigger picture.

            _Fifteen years since the Great War,_ she reflected. Was it really that long ago? Bjarni was fourteen, Egil nearly thirteen. In a couple years they’d go off on their ice wraith hunts and be counted as men. She should start contemplating potential marriages. Talos knew men shouldn’t be allowed to handle that kind of business themselves.

            “The Old Holds are ours,” she announced over her shoulder as Ulfric entered the war room. “Frorkmar took Fort Dunstad this morning.”

            His having the militia trained in Winterhold had been a stroke of genius. No one knew how far the snowfields and crevices ran. The ice floes hindered Imperial shipping now she had Haldyn in her employ. The Redguard battlemage knew his business and had a powerful grudge against the Empire.

            “Good.” Ulfric sighed and shrugged off his bearskin mantle, tossing it onto a chair. “When can we start on the Eastern Jarls?”

            “Not until we either have Balgruuf on our side or the resources to support a full-scale war,” Sigdrifa replied with a sigh. “The Old Holds are loyal… but not rich.”

            “And this coin tax we pay to the Legion is draining our coffers,” Ulfric said sourly. “Damn Titus Mede!”

            “He’s trying to bankrupt Skyrim to save his Empire… or bleed us out by using our children as sword-fodder,” Sigdrifa agreed grimly. “How goes the recruitment of Legion veterans?”

            “Well.” Ulfric rolled his shoulders. He looked tense. “Rikke’s reassignment to Bruma has removed the friendly face of the Empire. Many joined out of respect for her, not because they love Titus Mede.”

            “I wish Rikke would realise it’s not the Septim Empire anymore, but the Medes’,” Sigdrifa said sadly. “She should be on our side.”

            “I know. I fought with her in Bruma,” Ulfric said. “She’s the one who brought me to Talos.”

            “No surprise.” Sigdrifa studied the map. “I don’t want to kill her, Ulfric.”

            “Nor do I.”

            “But it might have to be me. We’re the last of the Shieldmaidens, you know.” Sigdrifa touched the red flag representing Helgen. “No one else, not even the Companions, can match our training in war.”

            She shook her head to dispel the melancholic mood. “It’s going to take another year or so to complete the purging of the Empire lovers in the Old Holds. Sadly, I need to leave Maven in place or the Legion will be certain about our plans. Destroying her or Balgruuf will be the first arrow fired in the war.”

            Ulfric sank into his seat. “What happened to the days of just challenging the High King and be done with it?”

            “Two thousand Legionnaires happened,” Sigdrifa said dryly. “You wouldn’t escape Solitude alive.”

            He nodded with a sigh. “I know. This… seems dishonourable. I know Shieldmaidens have a different sense of honour but…”

            “We tried honourable at Markarth,” she said harshly. “It ended with you imprisoned and me trying to rule Eastmarch.”

            Sigdrifa turned towards the doorway, looking at the Throne of Ysgramor. “Talos’ honour isn’t that of men, Ulfric. He used every weapon to His hand to soften up His enemies before conquering them, to lessen the casualties. If one murder saved thousands of lives, that was acceptable to Him. If stealing something allowed the quicker assimilation of territory into the Empire, He was good with that. If making deals with entities like the Tribunal brought much-needed resources for the Empire…”

            “That was acceptable,” Ulfric finished with another sigh. “Sigdrifa, I know we have different views on Talos. I can even appreciate your preparations. But Skyrim must be won in open war, so that the world knows we can stand alone, that we can defeat any enemy.”

            “I know.” Sigdrifa nodded in the direction of the boys’ quarters. “I also know I’m a mother. I want as clean and quick a victory as possible for my boys. That means softening up my targets.”

            His next question surprised her. “Do you ever regret abandoning Callaina?”

            “Sometimes,” she admitted. “But it had to be done, Ulfric. It’s bad enough having the Aurelii running around with diplomatic immunity and Arius’ rebellion hanging around their necks like an albatross. They acted too soon and got the Blades killed. We acted too soon and were betrayed by Hrolfdir. That’s why the third strike, the one that will make or break us, must be so meticulously timed. Once the sword is swung…”

            “…The battle’s begun.” Ulfric reached for the mead. “I still see her sometimes in my dreams. Arngeir’s hand is on her shoulder and he asks me why I let a little girl be thrown to the wolves to save myself.”

            “Arngeir has the power to Shout Legions to dust and he sits on his arse on a mountain instead of trying to save Skyrim,” Sigdrifa said flatly. “I remember the power of Wulfgar before he deserted the Blades. The Greybeards could even have driven the Thalmor into the sea. You can meditate on peace when someone isn’t trying to kill your people.”

            “I agree. But there’s still that novice Greybeard inside me. Always will be.” Ulfric drained his mead. “But someone has to carry the lost and dead. It might as well be me.”

…

“We kill them all.”

            Thrynn, in the middle of removing a dead farmer’s silver ring, looked up his chief in surprise. “What’s the point?” he asked. “The guards are dead. We’ve taken everything. Why kill a bunch of milk drinkers?”

            “Because we were paid to,” Garthek said bluntly. “Two hundred septims if these Colovian pieces of shit are killed.”

            Now Thrynn was a bandit in a clan that specialised in attacking weak targets. He wasn’t a nice man by most means. If they were strong enough to defend themselves, they wouldn’t be living on farms tilling dirt. But killing people who couldn’t fight back was wrong, not to mention plain stupid. You leave enough alive to be harvested next year. Hell, build a reputation and you’d have farmers paying you to stay away.

            “That’s stupid and you’re a fuckwit for agreeing to it,” he said easily. “Who paid us to do it, anyway? Because they’re bigger fuckwits than you.”

            “Some bitch’s errand boy from Eastmarch.” Garthek shrugged. “Do it. Or I kill you.”

            Thrynn grinned mercilessly. “Go fuck yourself, shitbag.”

            By the end of the fight, Garthek’s ugly head was on a pike and Thrynn was shooing the peasants away. “Fuck off,” he yelled. “Go back to Cyrodiil.”

            They did, running for the Cheydinhal passes.

            There wasn’t enough the clan to bother keeping it intact. So Thrynn ordered them to split the loot and fuck off. Given what he did to Garthek, everybody thought that was a wonderful idea.

            He then buried the dead. Everyone deserved that much. And he didn’t want ghosts to haunt him.

            “What the fuck happened here?”

            A burred Whiterun voice interrupted the burials. Thrynn stopped shovelling and looked up at the handsome Plainsman leading a group of Stormcloak militia down the hill. “Bandits,” he said truthfully. “I killed the leader and a few of the rest. They fucked off. So did the farmers. Now burying the dead.”

            “Dammit,” the Stormcloak said. “We were sent to wipe out the bastards.”

            “Bandits or farmers?” Thrynn asked dryly.

            “Bandits, of course.” The blond looked offended. “Any idea why they picked these farmers?”

            “Nibenese from Cheydinhal,” Thrynn said. “Maybe the bandits didn’t want Imperial neighbours.”

            “Who does?” the blond asked dryly. Then his expression sobered. “But to butcher innocents…”

            There were no innocents in this world. Thrynn learned that in Honorhall Orphanage.

            “Maybe he was a Stormcloak,” he drawled. “Gods know your kind aren’t subtle.”

            “No Stormcloak would slaughter civilians,” the blond said quietly.

            “The Reachers would disagree.” Thrynn shrugged. “I don’t fucking care. You gonna help me bury these people or fuck off? I’m running late for an appointment.”

            The blond nodded to a couple soldiers. “Help him. Then run his arse out of the area. We have bandits to catch.”

            Thrynn went along with it. Because it was awfully convenient those Stormcloaks showed up quick from Eastmarch. Someone set up his bandit clan and a group of innocent farmers. He wanted to know who.

            Thankfully, answers like that could be found in Riften.

…

“Hello, Irkand. I thought you hated Whiterun?”

            “I hate it a little less than everywhere else in Skyrim,” Irkand said wryly as he dropped into the seat next to Skjor on the fire-pit bench. “I’m even getting used to the horse piss you call mead.”

            “This might be more to your taste,” Aela, Skjor’s new wife, said with a laugh as she offered him a bottle of something red. “Snowberry wine straight from Snjobera Farm.”

            Irkand took a sip. Sweet and tart like the eponymous berry that grew everywhere in Skyrim. “Your land has produced something that’s almost drinkable,” he drawled. “What prodigy brewed this?”

            The Companion’s face was gentle. “A farmer by name of Laina.”

            He closed his eyes. Lia was dead and he’d told his brother that in all honesty. Old Beroc, Rustem’s father-in-law, called it ‘traumatic amnesia’. They all agreed it would be too cruel to make her remember. To that end, they agreed to support Sigdrifa in her fiction. The woman claimed she’d lost Laina in the chaos of the flight from Cloud Ruler Temple. “She makes an excellent brew – for a Nord.”

            Skjor squeezed his shoulder sympathetically. “You made the only honourable choice. We just wanted you to know she was doing well.”

            “Beroc’s not particularly fond of Alto wine or the imported piss from Cyrodiil,” Irkand observed, opening his eyes. “Perhaps we can set up a contract for this stuff.”

            “She’s still establishing her orchards. The snowberry and sloe wines are to produce income in the meantime, and she doesn’t make enough of it to justify a contract,” Aela said. “We’ll get you a bottle or two.”

            “Please do.” He’d send a couple of the more trustworthy Alik’r up to her farm to make sure security was tight. Or do it himself at night. “But I doubt you invited me here simply for something almost decent to drink.”

            “We didn’t,” Skjor said grimly. “There’s something fishy going on in the Old Holds.”

            “Of course there is,” Irkand said dryly. Then he sighed. “Don’t get involved, Skjor. It’s politics.”

            “You know what’s going on?” Aela asked with narrowed eyes.

            “If it’s in the east, then Ulfric’s people are behind it. Don’t get involved because it’ll be political.” He drank a little more of the snowberry wine. Laina did make a good brew. Pity his façade of the sarcastic assassin meant he couldn’t praise her for it.

            Skjor opened his mouth but Aela shook her head warningly. Her mother, mother’s mother and entire maternal lineage had been Companions from the time of Ysgramor. Skjor was a good man, a little direct and aggressive, but the Huntress had a refreshing streak of practicality for a Companion. She’d have made a good Blade.

            The Companion finally said, “Did you have a hand in it?”

            “Me? Gods, no. The Stormsword can do her own fucking dirty work.” Irkand drank some more wine. “We’re staying silent for our sake, not hers.”

            Skjor relaxed. “I needed to know. You’re a good friend but…”

            “I’m a murderer,” Irkand admitted without pity. “I was born to be one. But I have my standards, old friend.”

            Aela sighed. “You’d make a good Companion. You should come up to Jorrvaskr.”

            “I’m not a good man, Aela. Your Ysgramor would be disgusted with me.”

            “Ysgramor was no saint,” the Huntress countered. “In fact, much like Talos, many of his actions can only be described as evil. But he was fighting for justice and vengeance. Talos was fighting for power and greed.”

            Irkand tipped the wine bottle in her direction slightly. “Don’t let the Nords hear you saying that, Aela. They’ll say you’re not a true Companion.”

            “I don’t worship Talos and I don’t give a fuck what the Stormcloaks think,” Aela said bluntly. “Irkand, I’ve got a bad feeling in my bones. Yes, you’re an assassin, but that’s because someone made you one. It’s not who you are.”

            “Kodlak asked us to try and recruit you,” Skjor admitted. “I know you’re saying don’t get involved in politics but a lot of people have died in the Old Holds. I mean a _lot_.”

            Irkand lowered the bottle. “ _Kodlak_ wants a murderer among the Companions?”

            “The Harbinger has prescience when it comes to dangers involving Skyrim,” Skjor replied. “If he’s saying recruit someone in particular…”

            “That someone may avert a particular danger.” That explained how the Companions showed up at many disasters or tracked down particularly nasty pieces of work.

            “Yes.” Skjor sighed. “I admit, we’d like you for yourself. But you have a skillset that Kodlak thinks is needed.”

            Irkand took a swig of wine. “I’ll consider it. But I want to talk to Kodlak first.”

            “Of course.”


	9. Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of war crimes, genocide, child abandonment and abuse, alcohol abuse and torture. Time skip because I wanted to end the story on nine chapters. It’s thematically appropriate.

 

For all Sigdrifa’s hopes, it wasn’t until the twenty-fourth anniversary of the declaration of the Great War that they were ready to act. Twenty-four years of preparation for the war to free Skyrim – to save Talos – from the Empire. Her pieces were ready, her pawns in place, her sons grown men. There had been setbacks – her father’s dementia, the death of Istlod and the rise of his son Torygg to the High Kingship – but she – the Stormcloaks – were now ready.

            “You want to do this?” she asked Ulfric.

            “Yes.” Her husband straightened his shoulders. “A statement must be made. Torygg is weak, an Empire-raised veal calf fed on Thalmor milk. He must be persuaded… or destroyed.”

            That was fine by her. Weak kings could make for decent puppets. Skald, Korir and Laila proved that. If he died, that too was fine. Solitude would be in too much disarray to counter her soldiers.

            If Ulfric had regrets, he hid them from her now. Gone were the days when he showed weakness. Talos must have stiffened his spine. Or he got over himself.

            The Redguards had agreed to honour and recognise a free Skyrim when independence was achieved. “We value the struggle. Nothing worthwhile is achieved easily. Win Skyrim and we will respect you for that.”

            In preparation, Bjarni was dispatched to Falkreath and Egil to Dawnstar. Siddgeir was corrupt and Skald old. New Jarls would be needed if something went wrong. If Ulfric’s ploy went wrong, then the Stormcloak family was scattered for its own safety.

            She remained in Windhelm for the same reason.

            Ulfric marched out, resplendent in his steel plate. Galmar was in the Rift to lead the southern forces, Ralof in Falkreath with Bjarni to lend his experience to their eldest son. Egil had Frorkmar to advise him.

            If the Western Jarls were wise, they’d fall behind Ulfric and save untold lives.

            Sigdrifa’s fists clenched. The storm had gathered… and now it would break over the Empire.

…

“No Nord’s capable of that kind of cold patience, Legate Primus.”

            “With all due respect, General Tullius, I _know_ the Stormsword and her husband. I trained with one and served with the other.” Rikke regarded her new commander grimly, then nodded over to Quaestor Hadvar. “My subordinate here grew up with Ulfric’s errand boy Ralof. Believe me, I know she’s planning something. She’s been doing it for years.”

            “Reports do paint a picture of militia build up in Dawnstar and the Rift,” agreed Tribune Harnbjorn, Hadvar’s father. “Bjarni and Egil, the Storm-Get, have vanished.”

            “The Storm-Get?” Tullius asked.

            “Their mother’s the Stormsword and their father the Stormcloak, so most Nords call them the Storm-Get.” Harnbjorn shrugged at Tullius’ perplexed look. “It’s a Nord thing.”

            “You Nords are insane. Well, most of you. You three seem sensible.” Tullius sighed and rubbed his cropped head. “I assume you have plans in place?”

            “Of course.” Rikke crossed her arms. “We have camps in the Old Holds under talented Legates. We have replacement Jarls in every Hold, even the loyalist ones. Once the Stormcloaks commit to their actions, we can strike.”

            “Why can’t we strike first?” Tullius asked.

            “Because that will make us seem like the bad guys, sir,” Hadvar explained. “The average Nord’s unhappy about the White-Gold Concordat, even the loyalists. We know why it was signed but… the churls, many carls and a good deal of the land-holding franklins don’t. Most of the Stormcloaks… and Legionnaires… come from that stock. If we attack first, we just prove Ulfric’s claims we’re tyrants.”

            “The Stormsword learned from her in-laws’ little rebellion,” Rikke continued. “She learned from Markarth. Ulfric’s no fool and Galmar’s cunning in his way but this long plan was all Sigdrifa’s.”

            Tullius muttered something under his breath. “I’ll muster five ranks of the Bruma Fourth. That should be enough to send to Skyrim and not raise suspicions. If the worst happens, I’ll bring the rest.”

            “Thank you for trusting us, General,” Rikke said gratefully. “Gods willing, we’ll have planned better and further than Sigdrifa.”

            “And if the gods aren’t willing?”

            “Then we’ll have the men to crush the Stormcloaks.”

…

It was just another day in Solitude until it all went wrong.

            Torygg knew he was young to be High King. Younger than anyone else, including Siddgeir. He was three-and-twenty, sheltered in Solitude and fostered in Cyrodiil. He hadn’t even killed an ice wraith yet. There was always something that needed to be done.

            He was eating lunch with Elisif, the lovely daughter of the Count of Evermore who he’d met and wed in the Imperial City under the paternal eye of the Emperor himself, when Ulfric Stormcloak arrived. Now, the Jarl had argued passionately for Skyrim to remove itself from the Empire, his Voice making the Blue Palace shake. Torygg privately thought that there was a point or two to the man’s speech. Cyrodiil was asking too much in tax and taking too many soldiers from Skyrim. But the Elder Council weren’t unreasonable and Titus Mede was old. He was already friends with Akaviria, who’d come to Skyrim to train with the Companions and learn about the backbone of the Legions. She’d likely be the next Empress and with an understanding of Nords, she’d be receptible to salving the province’s battered pride.

            “Jarl Ulfric,” Torygg said, rising to his feet. “This is a surprise.”

            Ulfric regarded him with those grim dark green eyes. He wore full plate, his bulk formidable compared to the slender Torygg. His famous bearskin mantle was pinned with a giant brooch that depicted Talos’ Sword. Was he trying to get thrown into Northwatch Keep by the Thalmor?

            “Summon your court,” the Jarl said flatly. “I’m challenging you for the rulership of Skyrim.”

            “Are you insane?” Torygg blurted. “That’s treason.”

            “Only by the laws of the Empire. The same Empire that betrayed Talos.” He was speaking to the crowd gathering in the Great Hall. “Deny the Empire. Deny the milk drinkers who betrayed us… and you may live as Jarl of Solitude with your woman.” Ulfric’s gaze said plenty about his thoughts considering the dainty, part-Reacher Elisif.

            “You can’t win the throne in the Moot and so you’ll challenge me here,” Torygg said bitterly. He knew how he’d go in a battle with the Jarl of Windhelm. Badly. “That’s so _honourable_ of you, Ulfric.”

            “A real High King is able to defend himself and his kingdom,” Ulfric retorted grimly. “You can refuse the challenge also. Run back to Cyrodiil and beg your master for forgiveness like the good dog you are.”

            “For fuck’s sake, Ulfric,” the Redguard ambassador said in disgust. “He’s a boy.”

            “He’s a man – well, maybe not _quite_ because I see no ice wraith scars – by our standards,” Ulfric told Rustem. “You’re welcome to fight for him. You were an Imperial once.”

            The Redguard, son of a traitor to the Empire and probably one himself, bared his teeth in a feral grin. “Unlike you, Ulfric, I prefer a challenge.”

            “Please,” Elisif said, her voice quavering. “Why are you doing this?”

            “Because Skyrim has become weak!” Ulfric bellowed, his Voice shaking the Blue Palace. “Because we follow an Empire that denies Talos! Because the High King is a weak brat who panders to his wife and lets the Empire bleed Skyrim dry!”

            “Because,” Ulfric said, his tones dropping to normal volume, “Skyrim needs heroes… and all she has is us.”

            “You’re certainly no hero,” Torygg said bitterly. He clenched his fists. “I will fight you, Ulfric. And die. Because you’re bigger than me. You’re better at fighting than me. But I will go to Sovngarde knowing that I faced my enemy with honour, knowing that he was a coward and a nithing who murdered his High King!”

            He got up into Ulfric’s face. “You didn’t have the guts to face my father Istlod. No, you had to wait for him to die so you could face an enemy you could defeat.”

            “Torygg, no!” Elisif was ready to cry.

            He turned to her and kissed her soft white hand. “Live for me. Live for our babe. Tell them that their father did his best.”

            He picked up a butter knife from the table. “Come on, Ulfric. Let’s get this done.”

            “Get a proper weapon,” the Jarl said, something flickering in his eyes.

            “And make this more of a mockery? Go fuck yourself, son of Hoag. _Finish it._ ”

            A great force bowled him over and a flash of steel descended. The last thing he saw was Elisif’s moon-white face before the darkness took him.

…

“You told me that we’d have Skyrim in three months or less!” Ulfric bellowed. “Now we’re bogged down in a civil war with people dying uselessly!”

            Sigdrifa struggled to keep her temper. “I didn’t expect the Empire to respond so quickly! They shouldn’t have-“

            She stopped in mid-sentence, then swore savagely. “Rikke. That fucking bitch anticipated me!”

            “Maybe you’re not as clever as you thought you were,” Ulfric said, reaching for the mead yet again. Since Solitude, he’d taken to drinking more.

            “Or maybe the mead’s addled your thinking,” she hissed in reply. “I should have realised that Rikke wasn’t out of the game. She was the only Shieldmaiden to match me in training.”

            She swallowed her anger and looked to Galmar. “Stone-Fist, how would you salvage this situation?”

            Ulfric’s huscarl leaned over the map. “I’d strike through Giant’s Gap and the Rift,” he growled. “Take Whiterun and shove a sword through Balgruuf’s gullet. If he’d voted with us at the Moot…”

            “That works for me,” she agreed. “If we secure Falkreath and Whiterun, we can hold Pale Pass and the breadbasket of Skyrim.”

            “Exactly.” Galmar looked between Ulfric and Sigdrifa. “Swallow your anger and let it burn in your belly like coals. It’ll give you more drive.”

            Good advice. “So who’s leading which force?”

            “I’ll take the Giant’s Gap,” Galmar growled.

            “I’ll take the Rift,” Ulfric decided. “I want to strike a more direct blow for Skyrim than killing a boy.”

            “It was your idea,” Sigdrifa snapped. “We should have killed Balgruuf. _He’s_ dangerous.”

            “You said we’d have Skyrim with a minimum of bloodshed,” Ulfric retorted. “But all we’ve done is murder our own people and sully our honour… for _nothing_.”

            He stood up, setting the tankard aside. “Tell me, Stormsword, where’s the wisdom of Talos in _that_?”

            “Talos never killed a boy and nearly get skewered by his huscarl,” Sigdrifa countered. “You’re drunk, Ulfric. Go and sleep it off.”

            “You murdered your own daughter!” Ulfric yelled. “You threw her to the wolves and she died! Rustem told me that. He said he and Irkand looked for her but she was dead! A little girl with whip marks on her back! _A little girl_!”

            “And you betrayed the Imperial City to the Thalmor!” Sigdrifa hissed. “Elenwen broke you and you broke the Empire! _You betrayed Talos!_ ”

            “Enough!” Galmar roared. “Ulfric, go to bed and leave with the troops tomorrow morning. Sigdrifa…” His grey eyes burned. “Choose your words carefully next time. Ulfric is my Jarl and you are just his wife.”

            _So that’s where we stand then,_ Sigdrifa thought. The next step of the plan, the one to unite all of Skyrim, became clear. “Fine. Good night.”

            She left the war room and climbed to her office. There were letters to write.

            For her to become Talos, she needed a Culhecain.


End file.
